Three Words: Tuesday, Ballerina Slippers, Creme Fraiche

On a recent Tuesday evening, Lafayette felt like the set of one of those ensemble-cast Garry Marshall romantic comedies. It’s the place where Ashton and Julia would eat on their magical first date. Like The Dutch, one of Mr. Carmellini’s other restaurants, Lafayette has been designed by Roman & Williams, the husband-and-wife firm behind the Ace Hotel as well as the sets of movies like Zoolander and Addicted to Love. They are masters of golden glow maximalism.

Even in real life, the crowd — and there is always a crowd — was from central casting. Windswept women with perky breasts, perfect highlights and ballerina flats sat with men with stubble so well groomed it looked more formal than the depilated cheek.  

As I was led to my table by one of three siren hostesses in black dresses and white pearl necklaces who had greeted me with a beauty so strong it felt like a wall not a welcome, the seated women followed me with their Westchester blue eyes, flicking their tongues over the teaspoons of creme fraiche that accompany any good tarte, as if to say, “The man I am with is wealthier, more handsome, and more successful than you. Nevertheless, I’d be down for a quickie, if you want to meet me in the restroom.”

One woman, Cristina, had actually been a dancer for New York City Ballet, not a soioist but as a member of the corps de ballet. Under her table, across from which sat her date for the evening, an armchair of a man with errant nose hairs, a lazy eye and questionable conversational skill, Cristina wore actual ballet slippers, Repetto’s T230. These she had bought at the Repetto store in the 2nd arrondissement in Paris. She, like most dancers, liked them because though the toe and heel were canvas, with a split leather sole, the arch of the foot was made of more flexible material.

Cristina was bored out of her mind. She had stopped dancing professionally at age 30, her limbs still long and lovely but her joints utterly ruined. Now she was a real estate agent for Douglas Elliman. The man across from her was named Jason and, as if God was lazy the day He made him, Jason was just a quick sketch of a man, all outlines and no definition. Admittedly though, with a name like Jason, it’s hard to be more than a blob.

My eyes met Cristina’s only briefly for I had not yet made love to her. She was, therefore, just one of the many woman to whom I had not yet made love eating at Lafayette. Later on in the evening, between the excellent Maine scallops cru withsauce aigrelette but before the Dry-Aged Strip Steak Frites with béarnaise butter, when I was pleasantly full but not stuffed, buzzed but not drunk, I went to the restroom and got to know her better.

The path from my table there took me past Cristina’s. She must have noted that for soon after II entered the restroom noting, momentarily, how glossy was the finish on the walls though there were some signs that the construction was recent and to some extent ongoing, she walked in.

"Um…" I said, because no matter how much I talk about being filthy, I am actually quite puritanical and staid, "this isn’t Schillers." See, Schiller’s has unisex restrooms.

But Cristina didn’t do what I had expected her to. She didn’t realize her mistake, apologize and back away. It wasn’t a mistake at all. Instead she came towards me, slinking like a cat, not a cute kitty cat but more like a feral hunting cat. She wore a pink blouse that on any other woman would have been dowdy but on her was really beautiful. It was slightly see through though she wore a white tank top beneath it. 

She didn’t say anything at all but threw her arms around my neck, even as I was half turned to the wash basin. Up close, her skin resolved itself into thousands of brown freckles against a pale sky. I could see her mascara, smell her lipstick. She had had the Butter Lettuce salad and, not in a gross way, I could smell when millimeters from her face, the herb vinaigrette. That’s what I remember most: the herb smell and the doughy smell of her make up. 

Her arms around my neck, mine encirciling her tiny waist, we stood. I, unsure of how to proceed, thought about how to proceed. Cristina, cocksure, pressed her lips to mine. And thus we stood. My back was against the sink counter and, in the midst of the awe, I had no time to be concerned whether, since sometimes the counter is wet, I’d have a line of dampness on the seat of my trousers. Instead, I wondered what was happening, why Cristina was kissing me, whether this constituted cheating (I am married) and how far and fast should we go. 

Ultimately the decision was not mine to make. We kissed, open mouthed and passionately for not more than 30 seconds. She bit my lower lip hard. I held her head to mine forcefully. But, as quickly as it started, Cristina broke it off. 

She looked past me to the mirror and smoothed her hair. She re-applied her lipstick and I stood watching her. She reached into her bag and handed me her business card. Cristina cast me a look as if to say, “The balls in your court. I, for one, would be content leaving things as they are but am amenable to their continuance.” Then she left. 

When I returned to my table, my steak frites had arrived with their pick-up stick pile of fries. I studiously avoided looking over to Cristina’s table but when I did, she was gone. The waiters, serious folk in suspenders, were already setting up for the next guest. 

Submitted by a Restaurant PR Manager in New York City

JULY 21, 2011
Three Words: Lucky, Fresh, Spoiled

Tomas and Martine are a very attractive couple from Hungary who in December 2010 decided to spend their holiday in the Maldives. Unluckily (terrorism? pilot error? technical failure?), the plane on which the couple were flying crash-landed over the Indian Ocean. Tragically, the rest of the occupants died. Luckily, Tomas and Martine survived unscathed. This is where we find them now.

Tomas was clean-shaven upon departure but now his dark brown mop of hair is complemented by a full beard. Always skinny, he has gotten skinnier. He has — like many Hungarians — blue eyes, despite his fair skin and dark hair. Martine is slightly older. She was a night nurse in Budapest but once exposed to the sun, her skin has developed a deep tan. The two are in love and have been since they met at the Central European University eight years ago.

Upon gaining consciousness on the beach, the two acted as any castaways might: deftly fashioning a makeshift lean-to out of palm fronds, weaving a cistern from the rope-like fibers of the local trees and harvesting from the abundant foliage fruit. That night they gorged themselves on the fresh mangoes, picked like Christmas ornaments from the fulsome trees. That night, Tomas and Martine lay down in their palm frond bed, upon pillows of woven shredded date palm bark. Tomas sang goofily to Martine Jackson Browne’s Doctor My Eyes, “I have wondered through this world / and as each moment has unfurled / I’ve been waiting to awaken from these dreams/ People go just where the will; I never noticed them until I got this feeling…” Then, because they loved each other and there was no television, they made love in a very leisurely manner for they had all the time in the world to grow old together. Martine, sexually satisfied and sleepy, kissed Tomas’ sticky with sweat forehead, wiped his hair from his forehead and said, “Szeretlek,” which is, apparently, Hungarian for “I love you.”

The island was shortly afterward hit by a tropical storm. This delayed the search efforts and investigators didn’t find the wreckage of the plane until eight weeks after it crashed. By the time they stumbled across two bodies, clinging to each other Pompeii-style in the middle of a heap of rotting palm fronds with the ruins of a makeshift cistern beside them on the far side of the island from the crash site, flies buzzed in a thick cloud in the clearing, attracted by the sickeningly sweet smell of rotting mangoes and the decaying flesh of the last survivors. One can’t, after all, survive solely on fresh fruit and love.

Submitted by a restaurant public relations professional in New York City.

5:31PM  |   URL: http://tmblr.co/Z6m5Ny7MrGDI
  
FILED UNDER: lucky fresh spoiled sad 
APRIL 8, 2011
Three Words: Sky, Dog, Window

Rosie, a German shepherd/Border collie mutt the color of a Caramello, made sure to spend a few hours in the afternoon lying on her side. She lay not just anywhere but in the regions of the living room floor where the sun tracked its afternoon hours. On Fridays, when the cleaning lady Joanna came, Rosie was displaced to the couch or to another room.

There were three main resonant sounds in Rosie’s universe: Walk (and its variants, walkies, W-A-L-K, outside?), the muffled jingle of her person’s keys at the lock which gave her immense pleasure, and the annoying alarm of Joanna rapping on the window with her knuckles. This meant the arrival of Joanna, her weird floral smell of a flowerbed manufactured in some gray factory somewhere, liquified and added to a brew of astringent chemicals to be sprayed on filth worldwide and the ruin of an otherwise perfectly featureless afternoon.  Joanna, to Rosie, smelled of an artificial arboretum, polyester pants and the dust from the very loud vacuum machine that Joanna would periodically empty.

Sometimes, Joanna would bring her daughter, Dawn. To Rosie, Dawn was grey and slightly blurry. She smelt of varsity letter jackets, slightly soiled denim and sometimes, of sex. Those days that the musky smell which, being an animal,  Rosie knew well was present, another chalky soft smell, lipstick, could also be detected. She was 18.

Dawn left at dusk with her mother.  Beyond the sycamores and the stolid silhouettes of the suburban squaw — ha! — the sky turned from gunmetal gray to opal on a lucky night to black, cut ugly by sodium vapor streetlights. [A streetlight reduction program, however, is working to change this.] Dawn would be gone and Rosie would listen for the gentle ba-dump of her person’s car as it drove over the part of the driveway driven up by the roots of a sycamore tree. Then on to sound #2.

Dawn was Upper Dublin pale with a slight overbite that made her seem wanton. Also, her being wanton made her seem wanton. And, since Rosie was a dog and a female dog to boot, one couldn’t argue that it is simply man’s desire to see women as sex-loving succubi that caused her to realize this. It was obvious from the amount of sex smell that came from Dawn. The girl loved dick.

On one Friday, the smell of sex on Dawn and the sound of her person’s keys overlapped. Joanna had left in her Ford Taurus but left her daughter, proud owner of a new Ford Fiesta, to follow her. Dawn did not follow. She remained, anchored in place by the discovery of, as she helped her mother tidy up, a stash of skin rags hidden beneath sedimentary layers of unmatched socks in his credenza.

Rosie was confused by the intersection of smell (sex, Dawn, loneliness, Friday) and sound (master, home, food, walk, happy). More confused she became as these gray forms murmured to each other. It was the collie in her that made Rosie’s vision bad. Collies, because of where their eyes are situated, have worse vision than, say, a Golden Retriever. Rosie saw a motion as Dawn’s hand reached out to her person’s crotch. [Dogs can see movement better than humans.] She didn’t snarl exactly, Rosie, but as much as a dog can she grimaced with the premonition her walk would not be coming anytime soon.

Her person and Dawn moved quickly to the bedroom, without even giving Rosie a pat on the head as was customary. The door closed and Rosie, not knowing what else to do, circled once then twice  then thrice, and lay down at the threshold. Sounds unknown to her came from behind that door. The smell of sex grew strong and Dawn stayed late into the night.

Submitted by a literary agent in New York City

11:47AM  |   URL: http://tmblr.co/Z6m5Ny48oCAQ
  
FILED UNDER: dog, sky window 
NOVEMBER 12, 2010
Payment: Shhh!, Precum, Thick-Wristed

A plaster mold of a client’s face, silver-leafed and mounted on a wooden board. Payment for Shhh!, Precum, Thick-Wristed.

NOVEMBER 10, 2010
An Examination On The Difference Between a Handjob and Jerking Off

This essay departs from the Bespoke Erotica formulation but I believe it maintains the animating spirit of the site. I was recently asked to distinguish between a handjob and jerking off. This essay, I hope, does just that. 

In this brief essay I hope to elucidate the ontological difference between a handjob and jerking off. First of all, we must define with what exactly we are concerned. The central and defining act of both a handjob and jerking off is a manual manipulation of the male sex organ until orgasm is achieved. Technically, these acts can be performed on a woman’s sex but due to anatomical differences, this rarely occurs. Beyond this core definition, the similarities end. Let us clarify this by examining each act in turn.

What is jerking off? Clues to the cursory pragmatic nature of jerking off might be found in the grammatical construction of the term. The key term is the verb, “to jerk” defined as “to make move with a jerk” wherein the noun form of jerk is taken to mean “a quick, sharp, sudden movement.” One usually would say, “Janice jerked off Tony.” or sometimes “Janice jerked Tony off.” But one would never say, “Janice gave Tony a jerk off.” This is undoubtedly because when one jerks off another the emphasis on the act is reaching the goal. The defining characteristic of jerking off isn’t that one delivers sexual climax to ones partner using ones hand grasping the throbbing shaft and wringing it furiously as if it were a brass pole and ones hand were a chamois. No, the defining characteristic is that that act is done with a single goal in mind . All action — each quick, sharp and sudden movement — is ruthlessly oriented to achieving orgasm in the quickest amount of time possible. It seems paradoxical, since it is the process — however curtailed and pragmatic — that defines it, but jerking off is simply a means to an end. A brashly teleological action, jerking off is simply a necessary step to achieving orgasm. Jerking off is an interstate to orgasm: straight, fast and direct.

In 1982, author William Heat Least-Moon set off to explore America in a converted truck he dubbed Ghost Dancer. Least-Moon’s aim was to explore the country using her windy back roads. He called these, and the book that resulted from his journey,  ”blue highways.” Least-Moon wasn’t interested in getting from point A to point B in the least amount of time possible. For him, it was the peripatetic wanderings down dirt-roads across fields of grain and soy, meals at six-stool diners with a lone septuagenarian waitress, that made up the substance of his journey. It may be said, therefore, that William Heat Least-Moon handjobbed his way across America. For as opposed to jerking off, the handjob — though if successful ending in orgasm — is no mere tool of the rough trade to precipitate a jism explosion. A handjob, when properly done, is a complete ceremony in itself. Elaborate and performed with care, the handjob is akin to a tea ceremony. But instead of a chashaku (tea scoop) and chaki (tea caddy), one’s chadōgu is usually baby oil and a tender touch. [The chakin, a small rectangular white linen or hemp cloth mainly used to wipe the tea bowl, however, is common to both the hanjob and to the chanoyu.] The focus of a handjob is the enjoyment of the sexual touch, regardless of climax. Properly performed, a handjob can tease, titillate and simmer just below the point of no return for 20 minutes. In fact, what makes a handjob successful — the coyness, the coquetry, the playfulness, the anticipation — is what would be considered demerits if we were using the pragmatic schema of jerking off as an evaluative tool.

A point I would like to address before I conclude: An argument made to distinguish between a handjob and jerking off is that while one can give a handjob to others, one can not give a handjob to oneself. Conversely, one can both jerk off others and jerk off oneself. This, however and as we can see, is not the case. It is true giving onself a handjob is difficult. This is not only because, like tickling, it is hard to tease oneself. Rather it has to do more with a larger scourge on society: that we do not feel we deserve to receive the love and attention which are the underlying animating spirits of a handjob. And since we can not receive love, we can not give it. There is a a problem here but it is not the fault of the handjob. The problem is less ontological and more psychological and too large to be dealt with here.

In conclusion, we can see that though both acts often end the same way — a geyser of ejaculate ending up on one’s supine stomach, annoyingly hard to get out of ones belly button — the handjob and jerking off are two separate beasts completely. One is a ruthless hunter, sleek and single-minded at it hunts its quarry of orgasm. The other, much elevated, is a forest wanderer, delighting in the indirect, in dew on leaves at dawn and stumbling upon unexpected pleasures. Though the hunter may bag his meal sooner, one can be assured the meal of the wandered, when found, is much more satisfying. 

7:52AM  |   URL: http://tmblr.co/Z6m5Ny1RQi1x
  
FILED UNDER: handjobs jerking off essays 
NOVEMBER 7, 2010
Three Words: Bloomberg, Fidelity, Sweat

Bloomberg was a billionaire and a mayor but he still needed a break. So halfway through his third term, the sexagenarian decided to take a vacation. Trying to shake the persistent charges of elitism that dogged him despite what he saw as his populist policies, Bloomberg chose to forego his estate in Bermuda. He decided on the Peruvian Amazon. Now being a billionaire has its perks. One of those perks is inclusion in the Diners Club Fidelity Card, which is akin to American Express’ Centurion card except it differs in one significant way. If American Express’ Centurion affords its members access to exclusive luxury, the Diners Club Fidelity Card affords its members exclusive access to all sorts of totally fucked up deviant sexual experiences. One of the most misunderstood organizations in the United States credit card industry, despite its reputation for being the preferred card of retirees, the Diners Club is in fact one of the country’s largest and oldest networks of individuals into totally fucked up deviant sexual experiences.

The card itself, deviantly, is beige and unassuming. With it comes quarterly a similarly common seeming pamphlet. It arrives at Gracie Mansion marked, “Hand Deliver to Michael Bloomberg,” which the house staff has been instructed to do. This pamphlet is perfect bound and contains between 15-20 personalised perverted experiences. It is said to be so titillating, one immediately spends oneself simply paging through and reading the descriptions. Certainly Bloomberg spewed and spewed pearlescent cum into his tailor made cotton boxers whenever he perused the pamphlet. He looked forward to it and one would have thought since it was delivered quarterly he would have learned to remove his boxers prior to its reading but that too was part of the pleasure.

Thumbing through the pages, Bloomberg decided on the following itinerary:

  • 4 day/3 night cruise about the Puta D’Oro, a four cabin cruise ship travelling from Rio Ucayali to the mouth of the Amazon River in the Peruvian Rainforest. Included in this journey are:
  •  Full luxurious accommodations and all meals. Our chefs specialize in creative Creole cuisine using the freshest ingredients from the Amazon River.
  • Excursions with local guides down the Amazons tributaries to see some of the world’s most beautiful birds, and wildlife.
  •  On board will be five women whose sole role will be to provide you sexual pleasure in anyway you desire at any time you desire. At Puta D’Oro we are committed to supporting local communities so one of these women will be from Iquitos, a town in the Amazon known for its beautiful mestizos. The other four women we will obtain for our client after a rigorous research process in which we shall ascertain your preferences. We usually, however, recommend one white woman, one black woman, one Asian and one Italian.
  •   For an additional fee, Puta D’Oro will do its best to recruit from our client’s life — past or present — a particular woman after whom he or she lusts. Results are not, however, guaranteed.

Bloomberg pondered the possibilities while gently daubing his ejaculate from his shorts with a 500 thread count Pima cotton hankerchief from Turnbull and Asser.  There was one girl he had spotted in 2003, when he had given a commencement address at New York University. She was petite and pale with a slight snaggle tooth and, since she was on the Dean’s List, she stood directly in front of him in the front row. He could see her large blue eyes from the dais. She wore her hair in a blue bandana beneath her mortarboard and Bloomberg couldn’t concentrate on the platitudes he delivered for the images which danced in his head of her young breasts — heaving with pride and possibility — and the thought of hiking up her purple gown and snaking his sunburnt arm  (Bermuda, he forgot the suncreen) to gently cup her porcelain breast as he inserted himself into her quivering cunny as she bent over the railing of Bobst Library. [This was before they installed plexiglass on the balconies.]

He imagined the hot Peruvian sun, beating down on his whithered flesh. He would, he thought, use lots of sunscreen. He imagined calling the steward and asking for this young woman. He imagined standing on the deck, looking out over the deceptively calm brown water of the Amazon which at its widest reached 4km: the plaintive call of horned screamers, thatched roof huts belonging to the local populations nestled into ficus trees in the groves that would disappear during high water season. Or no. He imagined lying on a hammock, sweat pooling in his belly button, eyes protected by glasses and head by hat. He imagined this young woman whose name he didn’t know approaching him, pulling up a stool and removing her shirt. He would ensure she too would have proper sunscreen. He imagined her leaning over him so he could suckle on her breasts as they neared his parched sweat slick skin. He imagined her unbuckling his Bermuda shorts — they too are appropriate in Peru — and removing his stiffening divining rod from his trousers.

Or no that wouldn’t work because the hammock well, first of all the hammock isn’t good for his back and second of all it would be awkward for her to lean over from a stool to the hammock. Ok, so he’d be in his cabin where the cabin boys had very thoughtfully folded his towels into what looked like a lotus flower. It would be air-conditioned to approximately 22 degrees C. This woman would come in, shut the door gently behind her and without having to be asked, remove her American Apparel v-neck shirt and her Gap jeggings. She would curl up to Bloomberg and he would enjoy her warmth. She would let her hand graze his crotch to see if he became erect. He would. And then she would remove his penis from his trousers. Careful not to mistake the insect repellent/sun screen with the baby oil, she would lube up his penis and give him a handjob, all the while looking at him as he looked at the shoreline.

Now, he thought, he would need to find her. It wouldn’t be hard, he reflected. He would simply look up the graduating class of NYU in 2003 and then the Dean’s List. Then he would simply have an intern or someone look up the women students on the Facebook. Bloomberg was reasonably confident this woman would be game since a) accommodations and airfare to Peru were included, b) the class of 2003 he knew would probably not be far enough in their careers to be spared the asphyxiation of the economy. This woman, he thought, might be unemployed. C) He was the 10th richest man in America. Bloomberg smiled and picked up the phone to talk to a Diners Club Fidelity Club specialist about travel arrangements. 

Submitted by a very stylish Investment Banker in New York City

AUGUST 17, 2010

The other day I received an amazing piece of music. The piece was payment for Three Words: Scrabble, Mac-and-Cheese (Can That Count at One Word?), Burlesque. The stipulation of the barter was that I receive a percussion piece — for the client is a drummer — inspired by a front page New York Times story. The client chose Ruing Exile, Russian Says He’s No Spy, published August 12, 2010.

JUNE 14, 2010
Warren Zevon, tipsy, Fantasy Baseball

“Barry Bonds,” screamed Grant, enraged. “Barry Bonds is that what you said?”

Lisa shrugged and licked her lips. A soft pretzel sang a love song in front of her, leaving an outline of itself in grease on the cheap paper napkin below. “Grease angel,” she thought.

“You might as well have said Sandy Koufax,” he snorted.

Lisa eyed Grant. They were in the midst of playing a game Grant loved and Lisa loathed: picking fantasy baseball teams throughout history keeping in mind not only statistics but also temperaments.  After screwing, Grant often insisted on this game while Lisa often insisted on eating a soft pretzel from the stash she kept in the freezer after a recent trip to the Reading Terminal Market and microwaved, almost pathologically, post coitus.  Thus, Barry Bonds, who was sure to bring unwanted scrutiny to a lineup, was a stupid choice. Thus Sandy Koufax, a Jew, would never have harmonized on her fantasy baseball team whose outfielder was bigot Ty Cobb. Thus did the pretzel call to Lisa to eat it.

As far as the lovemaking goes, Grant and Lisa fucked like champions. Lisa had a big old butt, apple bottom jeans and boots with fur. She had the tits of the Venus of Willendorf but the waist of a Giacometti. When she had clothes on she was demure bordering on priggish. But O! underneath the placid cotton surface roiled a great undertow of filthy just incredibly raunchy bawdiness. Filth: spreading her ass cheeks as she’s fucked from behind! Filth: saying just really superlatively dirty things—“Fuck me, Grant, with your fucking ramrod cock right in my dripping pussy!” Filth: As she pulls her butt cheeks open and sits on his face, “Lick my fucking asshole, Grant.” Grant was skinny and bony and hairy. He liked to talk big but when supine was surprisingly conventional. He couldn’t take himself seriously enough for the commitment of dirty talk. Only when he was tipsy would he venture a tentative, “How do you like to be fucked, Lisa?” or the more descriptive, “I’m going to fuck you real good. I’m fucking you real good now. Vroom-vroom. Boom goes the dynamite.”

Lisa’s mind wandered, pussy still full of Grant’s cum, mouth full of Amish pretzel, asshole still moist from his tongue. She thought back to the first time she met Grant. They were both sitting in section G of Letterman the night Warren Zevon appeared back in 2002. She worked in restaurant PR; he was an IT guy at Deloitte & Touche. Expecting to laugh, ready and primed to laugh by the opening comedian, Grant and Lisa applauded wildly when Warren Zevon appeared. “He’s a real cut-up,” Lisa told her friend. Grant thought it was funny she used the word “cut-up.” “A-wooooo!” howled Grant. Lisa thought it was cute. But then Zevon announced he had throat cancer. He was so funny about it and looked at Death, his death, with such an open and wry gaze, the audience was thrown. It was like a funny 9/11 story. Asked if he had any end-of-life lessons to impart, Zevon said simply, “Enjoy every sandwich.” Grant and Lisa laughed and applauded, barely realizing how trenchant the observation was. By the time he had finished his four songs, Lisa—who didn’t even know any Zevon songs—was in tears and Grant—who knew exactly one, guess which!—resolved not to waste another day building Excel spreadsheets and dating lame girls.

When the show ended, Grant tapped Lisa on the shoulder as they walked down the bleacher stairs. “Wanna go grab a sandwich?” he said. Lisa, unsure whether to laugh, cry, or run, had said yes. They left their friends and split off to Quiznos. The two ate a crappy sandwich but loved it. Then they went to that weird Bikini Bar near Penn Station. At around 2am that night, exhausted emotionally and physically and at her place, Lisa stripped off Grant’s pants and  Grant removed Lisa’s bra. Her tata’s were unleashed to the world. His cock sprung up. She grabbed his balls with her pleasantly porcelain hand and said, “Fuck me, Grant, fuck me, dirty but tender.” He was taken aback but did and halfway through—she on her hands and knees andhe fucking her from behind and watching the street lights play upon the tenement walls in an effort not to cum too quickly—felt enough uninhibited love to venture a joyous “A-wooo!” Timed between the grunts and the slap of of Grant’s hips against her ass, Lisa let out a rhythmic, “Were [grunt] wolves [slap] of [grunt] Lon [slap] don [moan].” They both laughed and came gallons. 

Submitted by male construction supervisor for his brother-in-law and sister-in-law, Manhattan

MAY 23, 2010
Three Words: Hubba Hubba Hubba

You never can change someone else. But you can, if you work hard enough, blind yourself to those angles and hues in them you deem unacceptable. Sand them through grit, young lover. Recast narcissism as creativity. Recatalogue nastiness as misplaced wit. Turn obtuseness to stoicism. The world can be yours. Just put your eyes out.

Sheila had worked hard to blind herself in order to better love Mickey. Mickey was brilliant, she knew, so too then were his sins, They were anti-matter to what truly mattered. So what if he looked at kiddie porn, or if not technically kiddie porn then at least pornography wherein the young women are attempting to pull off pre-adolescence? Their tiny tits bounce and pigtails flail in thirty second fucked-up MPEGs childhoods.  Their thin legs in American Apparel tubesocks bend strangely over their heads as they are drilled on some sad beige sofa in a shitty room—glass and steel shelves, VCR, wires everywhere—by a chubby man and his purple cock. Who cares, Sheila said when she first saw the files in his browser history, when on the same hard drive as this were Mike’s theses and theories, emails and memos the digital proof of his intellect. A plain casts no shadow. The taller the peak, the longer the shadow and more profound its darkness.

Sheila had worked hard to blind herself in order to better love Mickey. But it failed when she met Eric. Eric, who was actually witty, creative and stoic without being a cruel narcissist. Eric tares me, thought Sheila the first time she met him, at Café Barrone. After him, the true weight of things can be measured. This was a very clever thought, she thought. She was with Mike, laptops out. Sheila was in the middle of a lol lmao ttyl conversation on IM with Darcy, her friend from medical school when she heard a gravelly voice ask, “Do you know the password?” 

“What?” she said, looking up.

“Do you know the password for the wifi?”

“Oh,” she said, “it’s Cigar. Capital C.”

“Thanks,” said Eric, who to her was still stranger.

Mickey shot her an accusatory look. Sheila turned back to her computer and wrote, “OMG, some hot dude wearing denim just talked to me.”

“Hubba hubba hubba,” replied Darcy, adding a smiley face with a wink (semicolon, close parens).

“LOL,” wrote Sheila, “I wonder what his cock would feel like inside me.”

“I bet it would feel real nice [equal sign, close parens]

Sheila sipped her macchiato but her panties were fully soaked with her pussy juice. She tried playing footsie with Mickey. Who knows? Maybe he could fuck her in the bathroom. But he just grunted and moved his leg. So Sheila discretely frigged herself off, there among the internet moguls and retired Stanford professors, fingers working furiously on her clit, up and down and sometimes around but mostly up and down. She climaxed thinking of Eric.

When she looked back at Mickey, all her hard work of mending his broken fucked up fences, of willfully misreading his jibes, the dyslexia of love, all that had been erased. Instead she saw a scared sad skinny old motherfucker with a Swiss cheese conscience for whom everything fell into two categories: things that glorified him or things that didn’t. A real binary motherfucker, she thought. Mickey had lost all the vestigial charm, that bloom of youth, that had bound Sheila to him initially. By wriggling around she not quite discretely yet not incredibly noticeably—at least not if one wasn’t paying close attention to her and for Sheila this was a given—shimmied out of her dripping fragrant panties. Holding her underwear in one hand, she unbuttoned her white shirt so that when she bent over, her pert tanned breasts could be seen, a fleshy fucky landscape inverted, capped by her purplish nipples.

“I’m going to get another macchiato,” she told Mickey, “you want anything?”

 Mickey nodded no, “No,” he nodded.

 Hiding her lacy drawers on the far side of her empty demitasse, Sheila scooted the chair back. As she made her way to the counter, she dropped her unders onto Eric’s Dell and let him gander at her tits. “Meet me in the bathroom,” she said, “the password is Cigar.”

A few moments later, the stranger Mickey had eyed suspiciously when he sat down, scooted his chair back and made his way inside. Sheila wasn’t back. But that didn’t concern him. She always takes so long, he thought, foolish woman. He sighed dismissively and went back to work.

Submitted by record producer, Brooklyn 

12:31AM  |   URL: http://tmblr.co/Z6m5NybCIJM
FILED UNDER: hubba, hubba hubba 
MAY 8, 2010
Three Words: Wool, Train, War

Miguel had always wished to be more ethnic than he was. Either more ethnic or less ethnic but not what he was, blandly semi-ethnic. When he applied for college, it broke his heart to check White. Miguel’s mother’s people were Chilean but traced their ancestors back to Bernardo O’Higgins, the Irish-born father of Chilean Independence. She was essentially Anglo though some Latino blood coursed through his veins. [Back in the early 1800’s, Bernardo’s daughter, apparently, had been taken by aMapuche Indian named Gustavo Namancura. Gustavo caught a glimpse of her fragile pale wrist as he passed her carriage heading north on the worn dirt road from Biobio Valley. He had followed her carriage to her father’s house in Santiago. There, stopped and turned roughly out by the guards who had grown weary of the tirelessly defiant Mapuche, he had called up to her window, strumming the battered guitarron chileno he strapped to his back.

Senorita, my cock is standing for you, my gentle peach.

There are 25 strings and I’ll make you cum one time for each. 

 He expected nothing but scorn in return for payada, the improvisatory song he had begun, took two people (payadores) to complete it. The form was unknown and to the extent that it was scorned by the Anglo population. But to his surprise, from her window he heard a voice, fragile yet resilient, which fell on him like a gentle web. It could be none other than Isabella.

I will suck your cock for 25 minutes or up to an hour

Until you paint my face 25 coats with your jism, Senor.

Gustavo replied:

Senorita, that is so kind but I must refuse.

I prefer the orgasms to come in twos.

Oh, you are a good man and my pussy is already wet

Let us meet and the first chance we get.

Yes I want to cream in your quim

Ai! I came just thinking about it, before I even begin!

Gustavo rode away, cotton pants filled with cum. That night his mind was full of plans to meet Isabella. He had declined the blowie but now, thinking about it, resolved not to turn it down if she was actually serious about blowing him. He also had to figure out a way to penetrate the O’Higgins compound. It would be difficult. The Mapuche population was a proud one; they had fought Spanish for over three hundred years. Gustavo’s family had been decimated by the greed of the Spanish colonialists and the hydra of evil and hatred born of their love of gold. He himself had been trained since he could walk to attack from the forest and then to fade into her trees. His spear had pierced both fish from the river and Spaniards from the North. He had vowed that this would always be hasta la victoria siempre. And yet, Isabella! Sweet Isabella! The Arauco War had lasted three hundred years but his love for Isabella, though made visible only in the afternoon was, he was certain, ageless.

                  In the crisp autumn morning of May, Gustavo left on his pallet the intricate wool poncho his wife in Biobio had woven him. In the crepuscular nothingness of the room, the fabric’s geometric patterns—bright reds mazed through with blues, a pre-Colombian Ms. Pacman—were invisible, nonexistent in the dark. He set aside his silver spurs and wiped from his face the traditional patterns painted just the day before yesterday in his jungle home. Armed only with his voice and a surety Isabella would recognize its deep richness, as scratchy and sturdy as a fencepost, Gustavo appeared at the O’Higgins gates. “Please let me in,” he said to the bored guards, “I wish to join the war.”

                  Gustavo pushed open the heavy wooden doors, entered and closed them, against his people, against his family, and against his tradition. At the same time, from across the courtyard, Isabella opened her window and peered down. Ever from her perspective, the foreshortened Indian was breathtakingly beautiful. “Isabella!” he called. “Gustavo!” she replied. Later, she sucked his dick for exactly—exactly!—25 minutes. Then she stopped and they screwed.]

                   Miguel’s father was a high school teacher from Patterson named Allen. He was a real late model American of indeterminate heritage. Miguel, who knew little of Chile and didn’t speak Spanish, looked at himself in the mirror. A voice called from the hallway. “Michael! Michael! Let’s go! I have to make it to Zumba class.”

“Mom,” yelled Miguel, “I told you to call me Miguel!”

“Fine, Miguel,” she said through the door, “vamos!”

Submitted by female Peace and Security Studies professional, Brooklyn

Three Words: Sandals, Sashimi, Ship

               Rhys felt the warm Caribbean breeze against alabaster ass cheeks, exposed westerly as Abel knelt also westerly with Rhys’ knob betwixt his lips. Things were going well for the lovebirds.  Rhys moaned contentedly; Abel hummed and drooled. The sun indigoed the sky and dyed the waves. Gulls and terns called to each other. Riding a sea so uniformly blue it looked like construction paper, a large white ship silently made its way to the island to disgorge itself of its cargo, small islands of flesh, parasitic floral-clad fat fucks. One of them, disgorged a week ago, a chubby middle-aged white woman currently holed up in the villa next door to Rhys and Abel’s was getting fucked real deep by a chiseled black guy, “Fuck me, boy, fuck me!’ she screamed though it was came through the glass a muffled loud soft moan, “I’m a mature slut gagging for cock.” On her patio, a room service table presented an empty bottle of rosé and an unfinished plate of yellowfin sashimi. The deep pink of the fish glistened unseemly and obscene in the tropical sun

                  Rhys and Abel disregarded the fish, the ship, the terns, the boobies, the couple and all the troubling socioeconomic and racial issues such a coupling raised. They had only 15 minutes before their dinner reservation at Barefoot by Ricardo and Giselle, one of the nine restaurants at Sandals Grande Antigua. The reservation had been hard to get even though the resort literature Rhys had received promised unlimited and all-inclusive dining. Despite the resorts anti-gay history (see here) Rhys had chosen to take Abel here to mark their six week anniversary.

[“Is four days away too long?” Rhys had asked his coworker.

“Nah or, alternatively, yes,” the unhelpful friend had answered.]

                  Now Rhys moaned and dug his slender fingers into Abel’s back fat. He reached his climax, unleashing stream of sperm deep into the throat of Abel, simultaneously as the white woman in the room across climaxed. She yelled, or so Rhys would claim later, “Fuck me, nigger!” Abel, though admittedly the cum in his throat and dribbling down onto his chin affected his ability to hear, claimed she had instead yelled, “Fuck me bigger!” which, though less sensical, was a great deal less upsetting. Rhys shrugged on a pair of loose khakis and a teal polo shirt. Abel wrapped himself in a kimono and they went barefoot to Barefoot.

                  On the way, Rhys dragged Abel from the straight and narrow path and behind the large leaves of a taro plant, opened his kimono and forcefully sucked from the young Abel the fellow’s sperm. The rough stucco of the wall tore the silk of Abel’s kimono which he found annoying and it also left angry red scratches in his back fat. But he was getting sucked off and soon he would be eating smoked mahi mahi over plantains. He moaned, thinking of the plaintains and the thought pushed him over the edge. Extracting himself from Rhys’ small mouth, Abel came on the taro leaf. Rhys stood up and the two watched the glistening unguent slide down the spine of the leaf. And as it fell, the setting Caribbean sun was caught in a globule of cum before it fell, with a tiny rustle, onto the ground below. 

Submitted by male fashion editor, Manhattan

MARCH 27, 2010
Three Words: Scrabble, Mac and Cheese (can that count as one word?), Burlesque

Christina had invited Edward over for Scrabble and, he hoped, sex. But after four moves, things were tense. Not for Christina, she was ecstatic as she laid down her tiles. Her lips parted in a triumphant smile to reveal shockingly white teeth set in a perfectly shaped alabaster face. “B-U-R-L-E-S-K,” she spelt the letters as she lay the tiles down, crossing Edward’s C-H-E-E-S-E, about which he was very proud, at the S. And as she placed the final tile, her décolletage was sufficiently visible from Edward’s perch across the table that he caught a clear view from Christina’s clavicles to her sternum beset on either side by bulbous and, he couldn’t help think, expensive looking breasts. To him, Christina was the stencil of female beauty. She was real hot mustard and her skin reminded him of the very nice Natuzzi white leather sofa his stepmom had in her den and that he had once, as a hobbledehoy, penetrated, humping the crack between the sofa back and the seat cushions until he came on pennies long lost, his sister’s hairbrush and pens too numerous to mention. And yet, none of this mattered at the moment.

“Burlesk isn’t a word,” he said, haughtily. As full of lust as he was, the Hasbro hallakhah could be broken for no man nor woman.

“Actually,” Christina said, “it is.”

“Nope. B-u-r-l-e-s-q-u-e is a word but not b-u-r-l-e-s-k.”

“Are you challenging me?” Christina asked challengingly.

Edward hesitated for a moment. There are times in a man’s life when what might be right might be wrong and vice versa. But there are also times in a man’s life when he must sacrifice love at the altar of correct spelling. This, Edward decided already rueing a night of missed spoon-fuck-cuddle-fucking, was the latter.

“Yup. I challenge.”

Christina said, “Ok, I’ll tell you what. If burlesk is a word, not only do you lose a turn, but you have to do exactly what I ask, no matter what the request.”

Edward replied, “Deal.”

Burlesk it turns out isa word, a variant of burlesque, also a word. And because Christina Scrabble-bingoed with burlesk and because the K was on a double letter tile and the L fell on a double word tile, Christina earned 36 plus a 50 points bonus. Edward was beat, beet red with shame. Christina said, “Now, you must do as I say.”

Edward said, “Whatever.”

Christina said, “Come with me.”

Edward said, “Ok”

Christina led Ed toward her bed and across it she lay and bade Ed mount her. “Dry hump me,” she said sternly.

Edward, to whom a better command could not be imagined, eagerly slipped off his loafers, and joined Christina on the bed. They had kissed once before, at Union Pool, but it had been drunken and sloppy and beside, everyone knows that kisses at Union Pool mean nothing. But this was different. When Edward and Christina’s mouths met, both germs and affection passed between them. Though white blood cells immediately attacked the germs, the affection spread, invading nearly every cell in their host bodies. They kissed and kissed until it was a little boring but Edward, already burnt by burlesk, was too timid to take the next step. Christina, spurned by burlesque conversely, ordered Ed to touch her bosom, over the shirt and Ed did so. “Moan,” moaned Ed. “Sigh,” sighed Christina.

Soon Ed had a cockstand that rubbed uncomfortably against the inside of his jeans, for they were cheap jeans and the zipper wasn’t properly covered with fabric from the inside. He had had it before and, then too too timid to complain, had suffered horrendous chaffing on his cock to the point of visible abrasion.

“Um, can I take off my pants?” he asked.

Christina said he could. She too took off her pants and her underpants; her shirt and her undershirt; her bra and her Wonderbra. Ed just had his pants off but his shirt on. And a fedora.

There was little to do at this stage except have sex. Ed caressed Christina’s breasts with both hands. “I like how you caress,” said Christina, “and refer to my breasts as breasts and not as tits. That’s romantic.” Edward was feeling romantic. Then he slid his hard cock into Christina’s yielding pussy, was met with little resistance, indeed welcomed was he as a liberator.

They had sex for approximately 18 minutes at the end of which Christina shuddered and clenched her vaginal muscles in orgasmic release. Edward, who had been delaying orgasm by thinking of all the two-letter Scrabble words he knew, also achieved orgasm.

Strangely, post-coitally, nothing was awkward. They felt instead they had done something right. Edward put his pants but not shoes on and Christina wrapped herself in her aftersex robe. They wandered back hand-in-hand to the Scrabble board. After five moves, Christina had a major lead but Edward had had a major idea during coitus. When the game resumed, he had a plan.  “M-A-C-A-N-D” he placed the tiles deliberately on the board.

“Mac and Cheese, can that count as one word?” he asked, grinning.

Christina rolled her eyes, playfully. “Well if it doesn’t, you have to do exactly what I ask, no matter what the request.”

Edward smiled and said, “Deal.” 

Submitted by a male drummer, Brooklyn, commissioned on the occasion of his girlfriend’s birthday. 

MARCH 25, 2010
Three Words: Facebook, Fraud, Gluten

Adam’s penis stirred every time his gastroenterologist Dr. Brighton mentioned “endosperm.” This, of course, was inappropriate. Adam had been having painful stomach distress for months and, as Dr. Brighton explained, the culprit was gluten, a composite of the proteins gliadin and glutenin found in the endosperm—hard on!—of certain grass-related grains, notably wheat. Dr. Terry Brighton had bright blue eyes and a pair of firm perky breasts were suggested by the  aqua-coloured cotton of her scrubs. “I bet she has a belly piercing,” thought Adam. He regretted Brighton hadn’t asked him don a paper gown for then surely his raging chubby would have gained attention and, so he thought, purchase in one of Dr. Brighton’s useable three holes. 

Terry’s pussy went wet every time she conned a fucker. She got off on duplicity, orgasmed to Madoff. Terry had gone to Fordham, majoring in Dance, she was a smart cookie. She was an artist too and used her steady hand to ape the font of University of Miami Medical School. She signed her name, soaked the piece of bright white A4 paper in Earl Grey then heated it. And she opened up shop in Williamsburg, treating idiot hipsters without insurance. That’s where she was—on the second floor in what she called her loft/office in the building on Bedford just north of El Beit Coffee—when Adam came in. His tummy hurt. She made up some shit about endosperm and watched his cock grow as he contemplated her nipples and her pubic mound until it scrunched uncomfortably against the inside of his Acne jeans. “Works every time,” she thought and said, “Yup, gluten allergy for sure.”

Adam sat there, looking forlorn, concerned and turned on. She had him just where she wanted.. “Go ahead and lie down, Adam,” she said, doctorally. Adam obeyed and from this position, his erection was a mound, like a denim Indian burial ground, on his crotch. Dr. Brighton lifted Adam’s shirt and palpated his hipster belly, ever so convex. “You know,” he said to distract her, “I’ve been eating wheat my whole life. Why would I be allergic now?” Dr. Brighton ignored his question and slid her well-manicured hand around for a bit. She couldn’t believe Adam didn’t realize she clearly had no idea what she was doing. It’s no wonder he didn’t for she knew exactly what she was doing. This was her m.o.: diagnosis and, if questioned, sex. Terry bid Adam to remove his pants. His bovine eyes flashed for a moment but the momentary glint of passion, of expectation, was quickly opaqued back to well-mannered Upper Middle class proprietary. He obeyed. Now his dick was a Maypole, a mound no longer. Dr. Brighton pretended not to notice as he lay back down. But as she palpated lower and lower, Adam began to moan with enough volume to render plausible deniability a non-option. Dr. Brighton said, “Adam, can you close your eyes for a moment?” Adam obeyed with a hunnh. His eyes remained closed as Terry slid off her Rachel Comey flats, let her scrub bottoms slide from her slender legs. She—obviously—wasn’t wearing any underwear. Adam’s eyes bolted open only as Dr. Brighton grasped his dick in her hand and lowered herself onto him. He looked up, uncomprehendingly as if what was taking place was so far from what he could conceive of happening that it must therefore not be happening but somehow still was. His stomach growled and he shifted under Dr. Brighton’s weight. Brighton, herself moaning with pleasure, assumed the reverse tabletop position and rode Adam like the L train. Her orgasm, when it came, was vaginal, not clitoral and tears of intensity, neither joy nor sadness had caused them rather they were like a psychosomatic highlighter. As abruptly as she had started, Dr. Brighton dismounted Adam who had not yet reached orgasm, so shocked was he by the situation. “Ok,” she said, “so…stay away from wheat, okay? You can give your insurance information to the receptionist.” “That’s it?” Adam asked, his dick still exposed, shiny and hard. “Feel free to call my office any time,” said Terry. She left Adam there. He contemplated finishing himself off but settled on not. Slowely he buttoned his dick back up and slid on his shoes.

At home that evening, Adam told his roommates what happened but—of course—no one believed him. He tried to look Dr. Terry Brighton up on Facebook but the only Terry Brighton he found was a middle-aged English historian who wrote Patton, Montgomery, Rommel: Masters at War. She wasn’t on Facebook. She wasn’t on Google. And when he called her office, the message said the number was out of order. “She’s a fucking fraud,” Adam concluded. But on reflection, he concluded that though the medical advice had been erroneous the fucking had been boss; He’d pay the $20 copay again and again and again. Adam smiled, picked up the phone and ordered the mac and cheese from DuMont

Submitted by female reporter, Brooklyn

MARCH 22, 2010
Three Words: Wrench, Beak, Talon

Teddy’s hot cock ball dash slap up ended abruptly. Bam! Hit on the back of the head with an 8 inch adjustable wrench right in the cervical curve. Teddy’s body went stiff suddenly and spasmed and stiffened again. Cum spurted from his penis like scuzzy water angel pee from a Roman fountain. His hand still clutched his shaft and face bore the same rictus of pleasure and pain of orgasm when the cops from Precinct 90 arrived ten minutes later. Detective Teyrone nearly slipped on a pool of cum. “Nasty,” he muttered. Swani, the head mechanic at Metropolitan Body Shop, readily admitted his deed most foul with a shrug, “That’s what you get for jerking off at work.” No one ever told Reyda, who had been planning a trip up to coastal Maine, the reason her 1993 Ford Tempo wouldn’t be ready for the weekend.  They carted Theodore Talassian—Male, Age: 34, Caucasian—to Woodhull, paralyzed from neck down.

Teddy’s cock had been hard for going on four months, February and March were spent at Woodhull and spring was spent at the Farragut Houses in his cousin’s spare bedroom. From the front hall, the squawk of 1010 WINS tickertaped his mind to bulletin breakdown. The weather never changed; traffic was always snarled at ten past the hour. The squawk of the radio was only driven deeper into his mind by the ululations of the songbird—a finch? A tit-mouse? An avis more rara perhaps?—that Tamara had bought from a Chinaman down the way. For the first month he despaired. For the second, he despaired. This might be hell, he thought. Obviously he would have tucked his dick back into his overalls if he could do it all over again and never have jerked off at work. Despair had run out by the third month and just a week ago, The Sea Inside had popped up on his Netflix cue and he had watched it. Soon thereafter the Netflix algorhythm had suggested The Diving Bell and The Butterfly, which he had liked as well. And so, it was that he lay mulling over what now to do with his life. He looked up; he always looked up; he could only look up at the ceiling but thought of his penis. Then it occurred to him. With a happy heart, a hard cock and a yad-like pointer which allowed Teddy to type his thoughts into a keyboard and surf the web as well, that the young(ish) quadriplegic posted the following ad under Casual Encounters on Craigslist:

Throw Out Ur Sybian! Try the Real Thing. Hot Young(ish) Quadriplegic With Hard Cock Looking To Be Ur Sex Machine.

Rachel was the first one to email to Teddy. She was a journalist. “Check out my twitter!” she opened. “OMG!” “Woah!” Teddy thought, “Ballsy” and then he thought, “Trouble” and finally he settled on, “Why not?” It was a Saturday she came over, in the sun-dappled afternoon and she brought with her a man-sized mirror with a dick-sized hole in it around whose edges were covered in chamoise. Teddy said, “Hullo.” Rachel said, “Hey!” and placed the mirror on top of him, gently, as to not chafe the sides of his dick since she hadn’t been sure what size exactly hole to ask to be bored into it at Crest. [“How big?” said the bald man behind the counter. “Um, dick sized?” Rachel said.] Rachel undressed to match Teddy. Her skin was cliffs-of-Dover white and perpetually moist. Her nose protruded beak-like from an otherwise mild homely face. Her smoky eyes were thanks to Cover Girl; Her cupid’s bow lips thanks to Shiseido but no make up could hide the avian rapacity with which she eyed Teddy’ hard cock poking through the mirror. She wasn’t fat nor was she skinny but she was generous. Her breasts weren’t perky but nor did they droop. They were soft yet firm enough. The fat of her thighs had not yet faltered to dimply cellulite. The general impression was of a Renaissance painting come to life, made only a bit squatter by the transition from canvas to Manhattan. Her cunt was a lovely pink and reminded Teddy of houses he had seen in Portofino. She had—like a Moslem—shaved completely and her labia were gently fluttering in anticipation. Her hands, Teddy noted, were unusually small with fingers that came almost to points.

Before Teddy could finish his thought, he felt the mirror press down on him. Rachel had mounted the mirror, supporting her weight partially on her haunches and placing Teddy’s penis at her pussy’s estuary. For Teddy all was blackness then, as Rachel lowered herself onto him, warmth. Rachel’s Rachel-like reflection with a big black dick, fucked her. Rachel kissed her own lips, saying with feeling, “Fuck me. Fuck me good, you fucking slut. Fuck! Frick! Fug! Fela! Pussy-cock together!” She ground her hips ‘gainst the mirror’s surface, leaving love guck on the mirror where Teddy’s dick was buried inside. Teddy grunted. He thought it might feel good what was happening but wasn’t completely sure he could feel it. His pleasure seemed immaterial to Rachel who ground and ground to a higher rhythm as if praying to a higher being, and in a paroxysm of obsenity and pussy juice, spent. Rachel looked downup at Rachel and a long drop of saliva floated up from her reflection and met its partner coming down.

Submitted by male writer/musician, Manhattan.

MARCH 19, 2010
Three Words: Schpilkes, Tucson, Pinball

Located in the Southwest United States, in Southern Arizona, Tucson is one of the oldest continually inhabited areas in North America. Hohokam Indians lived and farmed here for 4,000 years before Spanish missionaries and soldiers arrived in the late 1600s. In the 1700s, these “newcomers” established the Presidio San Agustín del Tucson and theMission San Xavier del Bac — the two most iconic and historic structures in the region. ”The Old Pueblo,” as the adobe-walled Tucson Presidio became known, is Tucson’s nickname to this day and it was in “The Old Pueblo” that Sean was being sucked off by three eager Univeristy of Arizona sophomores. Angela, the geeky one, was snarfing his balls; Violette, the French one, was licking the long side of his shaft; and Esmé, under whose brash exterior lay a sweet soul roaming lonely the halls of a house too big, gave free reign to her tongue as it dithered pleasantly on the tip of his penis.  Sean’s lilly-white ass was resting on the glass top of the “Old Pueblo Pinball Showdown” a one-off game made by the Shandy Gaming Company of Tullahoosee, MT in honor of the quadricentennial anniversary of the founding of Arizona. Every time Esmé made a sudden movement, the pinball machine let out a sad echoey jangle and Sean moaned.

An old security guard in a poly cotton blend uniform too big for his bag of bones frame walked by. He had fought in Korea, he often told visitors. Flashlight in hand, he performed night recon decades past his discharge date, on the lookout for spooks. He didn’t notice Sean and his three ladies due to cataracts in his right eye. Though his sight was failing, the guard’s s military mind, softened by years spent peering into the deserted halls of The Old Pueblo four nights a week from 8 pm to 6 am, had enough acuity to force the old man’s spindly fingers to spit polish his shoes every evening before work. Peeking just past Sean’s balls, which hung pendulous like hair tufted curtains above the stage of the Met opening to the hallway lit like a Shakespeare set with the old man walking downstage right—cue gel 27—Angie thought, “There’s nothing sadder than an old man with shined shoes and a menial job.” The thought gave her the schpilkes since she knew someday she too would be aged and wearing poly cotton blends. Just then, Sean’s balls twitched and cum gushed into Esmé somewhat eagerly awaiting mouth—I say slightly because in fact Esmé was wryly though not without tenderness reflecting on the kind of man who would place her and two of her kind servicing a faceless guy named Sean in a National Historical Monument after hours with nary a thought of her pleasure and who, in fact, probably had succumbed to the fantasy that her current mouthload of jism tasted sweet and to her gave pleasure. “Oh god, yes!” she cried and opaque waterfalls down the slightly aghast face of Violette below her. Violette, raised Catholic but lapsed, let her chubby white finger find the waistband of her cheerleading skirt—she got it at Halloween Parade on a recent trip to New York City and wasn’t in fact a squad member—and slide down to her tidy suburban milk-fed pussy. Twenty minutes of so later, Sean, Angie and Esmé had wandered off to the gift shop to gaze at snowglobes of mesas and cacti. Violette frigged herself to the crest of orgasm. She rocked back on her heels and jostled the pinball machine. “Tilt!” a robotic voice chided, “Tilt! Tilt!” but Violette’s clit swelled, she came and the machine clanged and chimed in time to her orgasmic moans, like a erotic Stockhausen eroica. 

Submitted by female editor, Tucson AZ

MARCH 17, 2010
Three Words: Battlefield, Hose, Alarm

Love In a Battlefield

“Ebenezer!” Sheila shouted, “Ebenezer!”

The man in uniform didn’t turn around. As he trudged forward across the water-logged mud of a field a few hours east of Harrisburg, a full moon of pasty bald scalp showed through his black hair matted down with sweat.  His kepi had fallen.

“Goddammit, Jason! Turn around. You dropped your hat.”

The man and his bald spot stopped. “Thank thee, Lillian. But please, there t’aint no Jason here and that there is a kepi” He took from her his kepi, bought for $59 from an online sutlery in Indiana that specialized in reenactor uniforms.

“I called you Ebenezer and you didn’t turn around,” Lillian (née Sheila Beebar) said with feeling.

Sheila and Jason had been married for 9 years, four of them happy and two tottering on the ridge of happiness that separates pacific couples and failing ones. The most recent three years of their lives had been uninterrupted drudgery. In an effort to stem the tide of despair that threatened to permanently submerge their happy home, the two had taken up weekend war reenactment. So they found themselves now at the fourteenth annual Battle of Fairfield.

Around three pm, the scrappy regiment of Confederate soldiers and the somewhat larger and bland Union side took a break for a period mess. Jason and Sheila, new to the whole thing and unsold on the merits of field-prepared rabbit, snuck back to their Subaru for a lunch of poached chicken sandwiches on seven grain with a little bit of dill. As they deserted their regiment, scampering through the switchgrass, Sheila fell and as she did, her tittie popped from the top of her blouse. A period corset had cost $139 so Sheila decided Lillian would go bra-less. And so, under a slate grey sky, her tit laid open to the elements. Rather than covering it up, Sheila looked at Jason. Something about the scampering had awakened a spark in her breast—as I said, a porcelain breast with elegant pink nipple not too dark, now exposed to the world—she had thought dead. She wanted Jason or Ebenezer or some combination of the two to have sex with her.  Jason had stopped and he loomed large and in silhouette from her supine position.

“How did Civil war soldiers make love?” she asked coyly.

The silhouette of Jason remained silent. Gloomily Sheila girded herself for the rejection that though constant enough never ceased to wound. But Jason too, perhaps enlivened by their desertion and knowing they would be thrown immediately into the stocks if they were caught, chuckled. “I didn’t think you were into period sex.”

“Well,” Sheila said, “who can say no to Love In a Battlefield?”

“The song is ‘is’.” Jason said, “Love is a battlefield.”

“I know. It wasn’t a Benatar joke,” Sheila said peevishly.

Her tit was getting cold and the two of them alone seemed poise to topple into the abyss of marital argument or into the abyss of each other.

Jason dropped his knapsack and removed his kepi. He unbuttoned his tunic and then for what seemed like a good five minutes fiddled with his trouser buttons.

“Fucking Christ. Why didn’t they have zippers?” [NB. It wasn’t until 1914 that Gideon Sundback invented the modern zipper and the grandees at the Civil War Reenactment Division of Verisimilitude and Continuity would throw a shit fit if they saw a zipper. Classic newbie mistake.]

Sheila meantime had taken this time to expose her other breast to the air. And from under her heavy muslin skirt, extract her drawers. Her breasts heaved in anticipation and the effort of getting the drawers over her boots.

Jason strangely had a bigger penis than his personality would suggest. It was thick and long with a handsome vein running along its side. It had sprung to life and was as hard as a hose, a fleshy pink hose filled with blood and cum and glory.

Sheila laid back while Jason fell to his knees. One ball was stuck in his pants but the other, along with his penis, had freed itself. It was a little uncomfortable for him as the poking of the grass under her back was for Sheila. He freed his ball and, as Sheila was sufficiently wet and time was short anyway, entered Sheila vaginally.  In a few moments of frantic wriggling, cum gushed from his hard cock into her wet pussy and his back arced back like the Cappa fighter.

Was their lovemaking graceful? It most certainly was not. Was it entirely satisfactory? For him it was but for Sheila it most certainly was not. But she was happy it had happened and he was too. It wasn’t a sentence. It was barely a word. But it was at the least the sound of a new beginning, or rather a reclamation of their beginning.

Sheila and Jason lay next to each other, itchy from the sweat and the grass. The tattoo of drums and a martial burst of bugles sounded in the distance.

“It’s Call to Skirmish alarm,” said Jason, “we’ve got to go.”

Sheila gathered her skirts about her and Jason donned his kit. The two headed back to the front lines. Behind them, they left the imprints of their bodies on the grass, summer snow angels. They may not have won the war, but at least they won this battle. 

Submitted by female jewelry designer, Manhattan. 

MARCH 17, 2010
Three Words: Ulcer, Tamper, Electrical Outlet

It was morning and Thomas fumbled with the Pavoni. The whir of the coffee beans being ground fine. “real fine,” he sighed as he tamped 2.4 ounces into a tight dark substance. “tight,” he repeated, “dark.” he had forgotten last night. The dark room of the Dugout. There he had fumbling rimmed a hairy architect—at least his butthole felt like an architect’s, there in great unknown. Thomas’ ulcer lit a burning cross in his stomach. He needed coffee. He dreaded coffee. His mouth tasted horrible. He jammed and screwed the double shot portafilter into the bottom of the machine and pulled up the handle. It was a reverse pressure Pavoni meaning that it’s the pulling up of the handle that creates the pressure for the superheated water to filter through the beans, forcing the oil and water, known as crema, into the cup below. But when Thomas pushed the lever down, there was no resistance. “sonofabitch,” he murmured. The machine’s three pronged cord lay helpless and prone, inches from the electrical outlet. That’s when Thomas remembered, in a flash, he had had sex with five men, each sucking each other off like a human daisy chain, climaxing in a ring around the Rosie until cum had gushed from their mouths in sequence like a Busby Berkeley routine. He has been Man 3 but had remembered man 5, whose dick, unsucked, stood hopelesly erect like a cedar in a field, exposed and vulnerable like the cord of the Pavoni.

Thomas plugged in the cord and came on an old copy of the Economist.

Submitted by male artist, Brooklyn.

MARCH 17, 2010
Three Words: Snooker, Pregnant, Brush

His balls were as small and hard as a snooker set as they collided with her bush, overgrown like a poor man’s yard. “Gordon,” she said, sharply. “Gloria,” he replied, stretching her name out like a ballerina’s limb. Later though after Gloria and Gordon tooth-baringly climaxed she went to the bathroom in his hotel room at the Marriot in Geneva. As she began to clean herself off, licking her own tits in front of the Helvetic mirror, milk squirting from her nipples to land like a Pollock on the reflective surface beyond which she caught her own pregnant hirsute Venus of Willendorf form, she noticed a brush wedged behind the courtesy shower cap.

Gordon was bald and the brush held, like a heartbeat, an incriminating hairball. It was blonde, the same shade as the hair of the hooker they had passed (though it looked more blonde lit by the fluorescent light than the seedy red bulb of the brothel’s threshold.) she realized that smile Gordon had given her wasn’t politesse; it was recognition. Crying she sat on the closed toilet seat. “All men are jerks,” she quietly sobbed as both her hopes for a future with Gordon and his own seed—evidence of a passion; a promisary note of passions to come—slid slowly down the cool porcelain of the toilet to rest, shimmering and rank, in a puddle on the bathroom floor.

Submitted by male musician, Bournemouth via Brooklyn.

MARCH 17, 2010
Three Words: Hasidic, Ikea, Discomfort

Rivka’s taint was hirsute and had the slightly sour smell of stale urine. I pushed her up gainst the crib—obviously a charity cast off—and lifted her cheap polyester skirt up. Her stockings lay in a synthetic puddle atop a version of a kiddy’s Torah.

The slats of the crib moaned as I pressed myself against Rivka. One of the dowels connecting the side of the crib to the post gave way and the side collapsed. Rivka was thus laying inthe crib, her head and neck bent upwards, resting against the wall. She complained the fallen side of the crib was digging uncomfortably into her lower back. But, since it was too complicated to elevate her lumbar spine enough to remove it—and because two dowels remained intact—I didn’t heed her complaint as i eased my cock into her now dripping slit.

Submitted by male musician, Queen