Dear reader, welcome to our spring/summer 2026 issue. This issue marks a milestone for our literary journal as we celebrate 10 years (2016-2026) of continuous publishing, and we could not have done it without the community of artists writers and readers we have had the pleasure of working with since our initial launch in 2016. This journal has been a true labor of love as we have done it with very few resources outside of our own contributions for website maintenance and we work with no staff except us two founding editors.

In this issue we are delighted to share the work of D. J. Wright, (Chicago, Illinois,) James Daniello Jr (Palm Springs, California,) Johnathan Lay, (New York, NY,) Reza Ghahremanzadeh, (Northern Ireland,) Barefoot Cajun, (Louisiana,) Travis J. Black, (Detroit, MI,) Tadgh Dolan, (Dublin, Ireland,) Bjorn Hansen, (New York, NY,) Mark Farrel, (Dublin, Ireland,) and C. Show hailing from central Arkansas.

We are also pleased to introduce a section on vintage queer erotica now in the public domain. Our first offering "The Sins of the Cities of the Plain; or, The Recollections of a Mary-Ann" by Saul is a work of pornographic literature published in 1881. It purports to be the memoirs of Jack Saul, a young male prostitute working in Victorian London. The narrative follows Saul as he recounts his life story and experiences to a gentleman named Mr. Chambon. The book includes encounters with real historical figures, including the notorious transvestites Boulton and Park, blending possible authentic details with elaborated fiction in this early example of exclusively homosexual erotica. (Source; project Gutenberg)

We are also thrilled to feature the work of several visual artists and photographers; Ricky Cohete, (Miami Florida,) David Gremand, Victor Velez, Rufus Krieger, Imanol Luquin & Manolo Yanes.

The Taste of Fossils

You changed with the others out of much-loved personas

into boots more fitting for the dunes

I lie about a piss—Go on ahead, I’ll catch up soon.

I went back to the car, to admire your big Arizonas.

These stand-ins for your body,

what they do to me.

#1—the leather and sweat smell.

#2—the weather taste, the swell.

The cork still warm, fossil of his shape

I lick what the sun never sees

My tongue all over this imprint of you,

size twelve and a half slumping sleaze.

Soon, your voice across the sand—

…calling out my name.

Yeah, I say, myself in my hand—

I’m coming​​…

I’m coming.

Nobler Pursuits

Zeus

no doubt

wore Brioni suits.

Priapus—

in his nobler pursuits,

lived in gray sweatpants.

Shadows

clinging to

what even

faith

cannot hide.

When a man chooses

gray sweatpants,

what he says

without needing to try:

You’re a slut—

and I’m here

to remind you why.

James Daniello Jr (he/him) is a writer based in Palm Springs, California, where he lives with his husband. He is at work on a novel. You can find out more about James @ www.jamesdaniellojr.com

Wrung

“Is my dad gonna have to call The Warden again? This is ridiculous…you’re eighteen

now. A literal adult.” Al snickered

“Nah, we’re good. I think last time did the trick.”

Shawn Thomas’ grandmother very literally believed that “nuthin’ Godly happens after

midnight”. His only salvation lay in the fact that she still thought Al was a guy. Having only

heard her voice - smoky beyond its years - on the phone, Shawn’s guardian had no idea that Al

was short for Alexandra. She was distrustful of virtually all of the “fast-ass rich kids” that Shawn

went to school with, but for some reason, his grandmother had a soft spot for Al.  

“He’s so polite on the phone,” she’d always say. 

Over time, Shawn and his grandmother had come to the uneasy agreement that, if Shawn ever wanted to stay out past midnight, he could sleep over at Al’s. As long as a parent was going to be home. And Mr. Harris was going to be home that night. Technically.

When they were still married, Al’s mom talked her dad into buying the then-vacant studio

apartment next door. The plan was that she would use it as the office from which she’d run an

interior decorating business. But, after having told anyone who would listen about how much of

a “lifelong dream” it was, she wound up abandoning the idea before the ink was dry on the

closing documents. After the divorce, Al slowly claimed the empty unit as her own. Meanwhile,

Mr. Harris puttered around in his pre-war classic six, oblivious to the madness often unfolding

next door.

By midnight, Shawn was restless, drunk and claustrophobic. As freshman, cramming into

Al’s place and getting hammered had been fun. But, after nearly four years, trying not to puke

while downing another Bartles & amp; Jaymes had gotten old. As had being the only guy in

attendance. While his friends never used The Word in his presence, he’d already heard some

variation of “I love you ‘cause you’re just like a girlfriend, but like, a guy” four times that

night.  

Shawn surprised himself when, almost reflexively, he declined to go out, in favor of just

being able to chill in “Al’s” apartment. But what usually sounded like fun just seemed dreadfully

exhausting tonight. After the girls left, Shawn lay on Al’s futon for what seemed like hours but

was actually the entirety of two car alarm cycles. The car alarm eventually stopped, but there was

still something wailing in the background. It sounded like muffled screaming, but also like

sobbing. Shawn pressed his ear against every wall of the room until he located the source of the

sound: Al’s father’s apartment.  

Excited by the prospect of possibly catching Mr. Harris in the middle of an American

Psycho-style murder, or just raiding his bar, Shawn closed the door to Al’s behind him. Mr.

Harris’ apartment was unlocked, like always. The lights were off, rendering the Basquiat hanging

in the entryway all the more terrifying. It looked like something Freddy Krueger would have

done in art school.  Shawn was tiptoeing towards the formal dining room, where the most

well-stocked of the Harris' bar was kept, when he heard the sound again. Except it wasn’t

someone crying out for help, or sobbing. It was moaning. Specifically, the moaning of a woman

in carnal ecstasy. “Fuck me, fuck me hard with that big fucking cock,” she growled. The noise

was coming from the small room right off the kitchen that used to be Al’s, before she moved next door.  

Mr. Harris was watching a porno. Recently described by Spy magazine as “the disarmingly

schlubby Marty Harris”, he had a reputation for never speaking above a croaky whisper and

eschewing the limelight so many of his peers courted. He’d grown up the son of a plumber, and

worked his way up from the mailroom at one of the major networks. From Shawn’s perspective,

he always seemed more of a ghost than a parent. Mr. Harris always seemed to be plotting an exit

whenever any of his daughter’s friends - or, for that matter, his daughter - entered the room.

The only light in the room was emanating from a small television which, along with a

VCR was resting on a metal shelf in the corner. Mr. Harris was hunched over, sitting on the only

other piece of furniture in the room, a small daybed. His slacks were bunched down by his

ankles, along with his white BVDs. Shawn listened to the rhythmic squeaking of the mattress

springs as the woman, young, blonde and big-titted, continued to plead for more. 

“Hey, Mr. Harris...,” began Shawn, as he knocked against the doorframe.

“Who’s there?” asked the small man, as he frantically searched for the remote.

“It’s um...Shawn.”

“Who?” he asked again, finally managing to turn off the television - rendering the room

completely dark - but seemingly forgetting that he was naked from the waist down.  

“Shawn Thompson,” he clarified. “Al’s friend.”

“Oh, the bl...the, the um...guy,” Mr. Harris bumbled.

“Yeah,” confirmed Shawn, as an ugly feeling started to boil within him.  

A sliver of moonlight unveiled the nearest light switch. He flipped it on and entered the tiny

Room. Marty Harris looked like he wanted to erase himself off the face of the Earth. His

expression was somewhere between a trapped ferret and a dog caught shitting on the carpet. His

entire body was pink with embarrassment and his dick, hastily tucked, in vain, between two shirt

buttons were fire engine red.  

“Did you need something?” Marty squeaked, breaking the silence.

Shawn started to reply when he noticed that his friend’s father’s eyes were locked on his

crotch. The head of Shawn’s cock was clearly visible, plastered against his right thigh.

Everything stopped, and Shawn could feel his heartbeat in his groin.  

“Yeah, I did,” Shawn answered, bracing himself against the wall. 

“What’s that?” Marty asked, eyes still locked on the outline of his daughter’s friend’s

cock. “I need you…to stand up.” After the words tumbled out of his mouth, it took all the

energy he could muster for Shawn to not pass out. 

“What?”

“You need...you should....I’d...I’d like...”

Marty scowled. “I don’t...don’t be ridic...”

Shawn unzipped his Levi’s and freed himself from his pants. Marty gasped, never

breaking his gaze. “What do you think you’re doing?” asked Marty.

“Touch it,” Shawn commanded, taking the couple of steps necessary to ensure he was

standing directly in front of Marty. His dick was mere inches away from the man’s face.

“Touch it,” Shawn repeated, as he reached down and grabbed one of Marty’s pudgy

hands. Marty’s mouth remained agape as Shawn wrapped the man’s fingers around himself.  

“Wow” was all Marty said before he took most of Shawn into his mouth. The warmth of

the man’s mouth, and the sight of his pink, full lips sucking on his dark brown flesh made

Shawn’s eyes roll into the back of his head.  

Shawn pulled himself out of Marty’s mouth and set about unbuttoning the man’s shirt.

Marty was virtually barren of any hair, save for some sprigs around his silver dollar nipples and a

wisp of pubes. He cried out in what sounded like pain when Shawn finally freed his small, hard

prick. It jerked wildly upon its release, as Mr. Harris wildly thrust his hips into the air, desperate

for friction.

Shawn pulled Marty close to him and felt the warmth and pressure of the older man’s

body against his erection. A pearly chain still connected them once Shawn stepped away. He got

down on his knees. “Very good, oooh...very good,” was all Marty could say, as he was getting

blown. It was a rousing review that only further fueled Shawn’s efforts. Marty’s prick was no

bigger than Shawn’s thumb but what it lacked in size it more than made up for in rigidity.  

“Oh fuck, I’m gonna cum,” Marty realized, out loud. And with that, he sat up so that his

cock was roughly level with Shawn’s face. Shawn crouched down further to bring the tiny man’s

cock more level with his head. “Shoot it. Shoot it on my face,” pleaded Shawn, in utter disbelief

at the words leaving his mouth. And with that Martin Harris finally let go. He said nothing as he

came, just panted like a thirsty hound. The splashes of warmth were audible as they hit Shawn.

Once he was done, Marty collapsed back onto the daybed, completely spent. “My turn,” Shawn

announced, as he sprang to his feet. His load was more of a thick ooze than Marty’s powerful jets.

His legs gave way as soon as he was done and he collapsed back onto the daybed.

Then they just sat there, each of their faces glistening with the other’s lust. Shawn

liked that he could smell himself on Marty, so he leaned in towards him. He didn’t withdraw

when Marty guided his head all the way onto his pudgy shoulder.

D. J. Wright hails from Chicago, which he finally feels comfortable claiming as “home” after arriving, rather by mistake, twenty years ago. A sober gay man, he is interested in exploring the parts of himself – ourselves? – that he used to numb. This is his first published piece of erotica.

The Picnic

Off to the meadow they go.

No longer boys...but not quite men.

Moys ?

A basket full of unforbidden fruit.

A bottle of cheap wine.

A periwinkle blanket.

A sensual Sunday at their “secret Sodomite spot”.

Baguettes in their hands.

Baguettes in their trousers.

Summer’s zenith.

A Monet painting comes to life.

Demeter and Persephone as fag hags.

Flaxen pubes on one; chocolate-coloured on the other.

Before they make love, the blonde one winks at the sky.

It’s a wink that says, “I hope you enjoy the show, God.”

Wintering With You

In the snow

We built memories, not snowmen.

Afterwards, we’d retreat inside.

Nude hibernation.

I was happy to warm your blue.

And even though we knew nothing would grow,

we planted seeds anyway.

Reza Ghahremanzadeh is a Queen's University Belfast graduate and poet living in Northern Ireland. His poetry has been published in a variety of poetry magazines and journals, including: Borderlands: Texas Poetry Review, The California Quarterly, Confluence, Contemporary Literary Review India, Dream Catcher, Rough Diamond, The French Literary Review, The Seventh Quarry, The Underground Literary Journal, The Yellow Nib and Nomad's Choir Poetry Journal. He has also self-published a volume of poetry entitled Neon Residue.

Leeander and Lilikoi, mid morning rain on a tin roof

Upstairs he lied upon the antique bed atop a feather mattress

Reminding him of days of his youth where he sank into the goose down feathers that at times

poked him

He remembered that there was an old tattered quilt that had his name stitched onto the neck of a

pinto horse

That room, that bed, mawmaw’s house were safe havens for him

And now he and his lover shared the old Acadian style home with each other

His name was Leeander

His lover was named Lilikoi, from the island of Hawaii

They’d met while serving in the US army

After their tour the boys had come back to live on the Cajun prairie where Leeander had been

born and raised

After his mawmaw passed she left the house to him and Lilikoi

Keeping the integrity of the house, they’d done some much needed work and painted it the color

of passion fruit: yellow, red, purple and green

The boys now in their mid forties had a flair for art and decorating

They were passionately in love

Leeander was a painter of buildings

He’d become a muralist designing historic, funky, artistic designs on old and new buildings alike

Lilikoi dealt in antiques, mostly heavy, bulky items such as armoires, four poster beds and pie

safes with ornate marble tops Often the guys worked in tandem with clients

On this morning Leeander lied on his bed listening to the rain falling against the tin roof

reminding him of his happy childhood with his mawmaw

He wished Lilikoi was home with him

He lie there naked embracing the morning

He had drunk coffee, read some and completed a poem he had been nurturing

Spread eagle on his back Leeander filled up the bed, he was a big burly man, long hair, bearded,

massive muscled arms and legs, a man tool that was quite adequate and pencil eraser nipples that

sat upright sufficient to erase an exercise book from front to back

Leeander loved making love with Lilikoi, yet if he needed to in the absence of his lover he could

certainly create a hot time singularly

For these times the boys had installed a mirror that mirrored the whole of the bed attached to the

ceiling

And just as Leeander had worked the dough to rise, Lilikoi walked into the bedroom

So intense was Leeander in his own world with his own body moving slowly as first, caressing

essential parts of his body, moving to his maleness he began to sweat looking upwards at

himself, turning himself on, making painfully, beautifully sensual moans and groans of pleasure

Lilikoi had stripped inside of the door frame to the bedroom watching, loving and sensually

getting into the groove with his lover in parallel love-making They watched each other squirt as

their sem​​en made arching rainbows intersecting each other in the sunlight cast upon the beauty

of the loving, passionate, sexual energy in the room

Afterwards they held each other and drifted off in sleep spooning each other while listening to

the rain on the tin roof

Barefoot Cajun writes each day on the Cajun Prairie, mostly barefoot. He is inspired by daily treks on the Prairie to rice, soybean fields, crawfish Ponds and Bayous. Barefoot is a naturalist inspired by animals and the natural outdoors. He writes about outliers and marginalized individuals. Also writes poetry and gay romance shorts set in the 1960’s. Barefoot speaks Cajun French. The flat South Louisiana Prairie is his Happy Place! Laissez le bon temps rouler!, ((Let the good times roll!)

RECOLLECTIONS OF A MARY-ANN

INTRODUCTION

The writer of these notes was walking through Leicester Square one sunny afternoon last November, when his attention was particularly taken by an effeminate, but very good-looking young fellow, who was walking in front of him, looking in shop-windows from time to time, and now and then looking round as if to attract my attention.

Dressed in tight-fitting clothes, which set off his Adonis-like figure to the best advantage, especially about what snobs call the fork of his trousers, where evidently he was favoured by nature by a very extraordinary development of the male appendages; he had small and elegant feet, set off by pretty patent leather boots, a fresh looking beardless face, with almost feminine features, auburn hair, and sparkling blue eyes, which spoke as plainly as possible to my senses, and told me that the handsome youth must indeed be one of the "Mary-Ann's" of London, who I had heard were often to be seen sauntering in the neighbourhood of Regent Street, or the Haymarket, on fine afternoons or evenings.

Presently the object of my curiosity almost halted and stood facing the writer as he took off his hat, and wiped his face with a beautiful white silk handkerchief.

That lump in his trousers had quite a fascinating effect upon me. Was it natural or made up by some artificial means? If real, what a size when excited; how I should like to handle such a manly jewel, etc. All this ran through my mind, and determined me to make his acquaintance, in order to unravel the real and naked truth; also, if possible, to glean what I could of his antecedents and mode of life, which I felt sure must be extraordinarily interesting.

When he moved on again I noticed that he turned down a little side street, and was looking in a picture shop. I followed him, and first making some observations about the scanty drapery on some of the actresses and other beauties whose photographs were exposed for sale, I asked him if he would take a glass of wine.

He appeared to comprehend that there was business in my proposal, but seemed very diffident about drinking in any public place.

"Well," I said, "would you mind if we take a cab to my chambers—I live in the Cornwall Mansions, close to Baker Street Station—have a cigar and a chat with me, as I see you are evidently a fast young chap, and can put me up to a thing or two?"

"All right. Put your thing up, I suppose you mean. Why do you seem so afraid to say what you want?" he replied with a most meaning look.

"I'm not at all delicate; but wish to keep myself out of trouble. Who can tell who hears you out in the streets?" I said, hailing a cab. "I don't like to be seen speaking to a young fellow in the street. We shall be all right in my own rooms."

It was just about my dinner hour when we reached my place, so I rang the bell, and ordered my old housekeeper to lay the table for two, and both of us did ample justice to a good rumpsteak and oyster sauce, topped up with a couple of bottles of champagne of an extra sec brand.

As soon as the cloth was removed, we settled ourselves comfortably over the fire with brandy and cigars, for it was a sharp, frosty day out.

"My boy, I hope you enjoyed your dinner?" I said, mixing a couple of good warm glasses of brandy hot, "but you have not favoured me with your name. Mine you could have seen by the little plate on my door, is Mr. Cambon."

"Saul, Jack Saul, sir, of Lisle Street, Leicester Square, and ready for a lark with a free gentleman at any time. What was it made you take a fancy to me? Did you observe any particularly interesting points about your humble servant?" as he slyly looked down towards the prominent part I have previously mentioned.

"You seem a fine figure, and so evidently well hung that I had quite a fancy to satisfy my curiosity about it. Is it real or made up for show?" I asked.

"As real as my face, sir, and a great deal prettier. Did you ever see a finer tosser in your life?" he replied, opening his trousers and exposing a tremendous prick, which was already in a half-standing state. "It's my only fortune, sir; but it really provides for all I want, and often introduces me to the best of society, ladies as well as gentlemen. There isn't a girl about Leicester Square but what would like to have me for her man, but I find it more to my interest not to waste my strength on women; the pederastic game pays so well, and is quite as enjoyable. I wouldn't have a woman unless well paid for it."

He was gently frigging himself as he spoke, and had a glorious stand by the time he had finished, so throwing the end of my cigar into the fire, I knelt down by his side to examine that fine plaything of his.

Opening his trousers more, I brought everything into full view—a priapus nearly ten inches long, very thick, and underhung by a most glorious pair of balls, which were surrounded and set off by quite a profusion of light auburn curls.

How I handled those appendages, the sack of which was drawn up so deliciously tight, which is a sure sign of strength, and that they have not been enervated by too excessive fucking or frigging. I hate to see balls hang loosely down, or even a fine prick with very small or scarcely any stones to it—these half-and-half tools are an abomination.

Gently frigging him, I tongued the ruby head for a minute or two, till he called out, "Hold, hold, sir, or you will get it in your mouth!"

This was not my game; I wanted to see him spend, so removing my lips, I pointed that splendid tool outwards over the hearthrug and frigged him quickly. Almost in a moment it came; first a single thick clot was ejected, like a stone from a volcano, then quite a jet of sperm went almost a yard high, and right into the fire, where it fizzled on the red-hot coals.

"By Jove, what a spend!" I exclaimed, "we will strip now, and have some better fun, Jack. I want to see you completely naked, my boy, as there is nothing so delightful as to see a fine young fellow when well formed and furnished in every respect. Will you suck me? That is what I like first; frigging you has only given me half a cockstand at present."

"You must be generous if I do, or you will not get me to come and see you here again," he answered with a smile, which had almost a girlish sweetness of expression.

We were soon stripped to the buff, and having locked the door, I sat down with my beautiful youth on my knee, we kissed each other, and he thrust his tongue most wantonly into my mouth, as my hands fairly travelled all over his body; but that glorious prick of his claimed most attention, and I soon had it again in a fine state of erection.

"Now kneel down and gamahuche me," I said, "whilst I can frig your lovely prick with my foot."

Seemingly to enter thoroughly into the spirit of the thing, he was on his knees in a moment, between my legs, and began to fondle my still rather limp pego most deliciously, taking the head fully into his voluptuously warm mouth, and rolling his tongue round the prepuce in the most lascivious manner it is possible to imagine.

I stiffened up at once under such exciting tittillations, which seemed to have a like effect upon his prick, which I could feel with my toes to be as hard as a rolling-pin, as my foot gently frigged and rolled it on his bended thigh, and he soon spent over my sole as it gently continued the exciting friction.

I now gave myself more and more to his gamahuching, now and then seizing his head with both hands, and raising his face to mine, we indulged in luscious love kisses, which prolonged my pleasure almost indefinitely. At last I allowed him to bring me to a crisis, and he swallowed every drop of my spendings with evident relish.

After resting awhile, and taking a little more stimulant, I asked him how he had come to acquire such a decided taste for gamahuching, to do it so deliciously as he did.

"That would be too long a tale to go into now," he replied. "Some other day, if you like to make it worth my while, I will give you the whole history."

"Could you write it out, or give me an outline so that I might put it into the shape of a tale?"

"Certainly; but it would take me so much time that you would have to make me a present of at least twenty pounds. It would take during three or four weeks several hours a day."

"I don't mind a fiver a week if you give me a fair lot, say thirty or forty pages of note-paper a week, tolerably well written," I replied.

And the arrangement was made for him to compile me "The Recollections of a Mary-Ann," which I suggested ought to be the title, although he seemed not at all to like the name as applied to himself, saying that that was what the low girls of his neighbourhood called him if they wished to insult him, however, he said at last, "the four fivers will make up for that."

"Now," he added, "I suppose you would like me to put it up for you, or rather into myself. But can you lend me such a thing as a birch? You are not so young as I am, and want something to stimulate you; besides, I want you to do it well, as I fancy that moderate sized cock of yours immensely. Do you know that I am sure I like a nice man to fuck me as much as ever a woman could?"

The birch was produced, and he insisted upon tying me down over the easy chair, so that I could not flinch or get away from the application of the rod.

He began very steadily, and with light stinging cuts which soon made me aware that I had a rather accomplished young schoolmaster to deal with my posteriors, which began to tingle most pleasantly after a few strokes. The sting of each cut was sharp, but the warm, burning rush of blood to the parts had such an exciting effect that, although I fairly writhed and wriggled under each stroke, I was rapidly getting into a most delicious state of excitement.

The light tips of the birch seemed to search out each tender spot, twining round my buttocks and thighs, touching up both shaft and balls, as well as wealing my ham, till I was most rampantly erect, and cried out for him to let me have him at once.

"Not yet; not yet, you bugger. You want to get into my arse, do you? I'll teach you to fuck arseholes, my boy!" he exclaimed, chuckling over my mingled pain and excitement.

"How do you like that—and that—and that—and that?" The last stroke was so painful that it almost took my breath away, and I knew he had fairly drawn blood.

I was furious, my prick felt red-hot, almost ready to burst, when he unloosed my hands and ancles.

I seized him in a perfect fury of lust. His prick was also standing like a bar of iron; he had got so excited by my flagellation. He was turned round, and made to kneel upon the chair at once, presenting his bottom to my attack. No one to look at it would have thought the pinky and wrinkled little hole had ever been much used, except for the necessary offices of nature. The sight was perfectly maddening; it looked so delicious.

As I stopped for a moment to lubricate the head of my prick with saliva, he put his fingers in his mouth, and then wetted the little hole himself, to make it as easy as possible for me.

Coming to the charge, I found him delightfully tight, but I got in slowly as he helped me as much as possible by directing the head of my cock with his hand, whilst I had him round the waist and handled that beautiful tool of his, which added immensely to my pleasure. At last I felt fairly in, but did not want to spend too soon, so only moved very slowly, enjoying the sense of possession and the delicious pressures which he evidently so well knew how to apply.

My frigging soon brought him to a spend, and catching it all in my hands, I rubbed the creamy essence of life up and down his prick and over his balls, and even on my own cock as it drew in and out of his bottom.

My delight was perfectly indescribable. I drew it out so long, always stopping for a little when the spending crisis seemed imminent, but at last his writhings and pressures had such an irresistible effect that I could no longer restrain the flood of sperm I had tried so long to keep back, and feeling it shoot from me in a red-hot stream, the agonizing delight made both of us give vent to perfect howls of extasy.

We both nearly fainted, but my instrument was so hard and inflamed that it was a long time before it in the least began to abate its stiffness.

It was still in his bottom, revelling in the well-lubricated hole, and he would fain have worked me up to the very crisis again, but I was afraid of exhausting myself too much at one time, so gradually allowed Mr. Pego to assume his normal size, and slip out of that delicious orifice which had given me such pleasure.

A week after this first introduction Jack came again, and brought the first instalment of his rough notes, from which this MS. is compiled.

Of course at each visit we had a delicious turn at bottom-fucking, but as the recital of the same kind of thing over and over again is likely to pall upon my readers, I shall omit a repetition of our numerous orgies of lust, all very similar to the foregoing, and content myself by a simple recital of his adventures.

Jack Saul, "The Sins of the Cities of the Plain; or, The Recollections of a Mary-Ann" by Jack Saul is a work of pornographic literature published in 1881. It purports to be the memoirs of Jack Saul, a young male sex worker working in Victorian London. The narrative follows Saul as he recounts his life story and experiences to a gentleman named Mr. Chambon. The book includes encounters with real historical figures, including the notorious transvestites of Boulton and Park, blending possible authentic details with elaborated fiction in this early example of exclusively homosexual erotica. Source. Project Gutenberg

To A.J.

White, blonde-haired boy

with ocean blue eyes –

you stumbled into my heart

[blood rushing my veins]

Your playful grin makes me

hot and bothered.

I keep replaying our casual

encounters at work,

[You blue-eyed soul]

the way your barrel chest

and broad shoulders mosey

through the kitchen corridors

[heart thumps harder]

The tiny sway your head

tilts towards me as we talk

delightful déjà vu,

I never want this to end.

[pupils enlarge]

Your mischievous flirting

and crass jokes with me

[even though you’re a married straight man]

makes me fantasize about

us together –

Now I’m hard and embarrassed,

I still love that twinkle

in your eye…

[lips part].

At The Beach

I see silk skies and

cotton pillows aloft

scorching sunbeams –

I smile ear-to-ear while

crystals glint in waves,

And a sylphs’

breath grazing his tongue

along my arms –

I smell the sunscreen on my cheeks – it’s

bouquet like

shea butter, oil and sweet licorice

lick my nose,

but when I see the pearl of lake water

beading down my cousins’ hairy chest,

…I can’t look away.

Travis J. Black is a gay writer, poet and visual artist living in metro-Detroit, MI. He often explores themes that reflect the artful balance and intersectionality of queerness, longing, existential awareness and the more subversive and darker aspects of nature and the human condition. He is currently working on new ways to articulate his inner existential dread by creating collage and digital artworks. His cat, Boris, doesn't seem to mind his aimless ranting either. You can follow him on IG @travisjblack. 

Bitter the Juice

kissed by the sun

whose touch

is a memory of a memory of moans

in a bedroom’s summer heat

the cute laughs

that led him desperately to your bed

where you spread your glory cleansed & amp;

lotioned ready to invoke the gods work

of great power to leave you

exhausted and bound

on his tongue slick that the ancestors would never approve,

cut off from the rivers of magic they provided

leaving you

a desert with only the wind

of a ceiling fan blowing between your legs—hot and dry

excepting the wet spot you lay in & amp; his bitter juice

on your lips

My Loves are Rivers

           --a Jaime y Neil

my loves you are rivers

overflowing, diverging, collapsing into

my mouth

across my naked body

you spell your names

in elaborate breathes

you love in me

the way light hits

the eye im blurry

with your love, I go

blind and fumble in the dark

in your open mouth

i conduct cacophonies that become

the revolutions of civilizations

you and you and I make

like there is no

distance we can't cross

when there is no distance between our legs

Johnathan Lay is a Southern writer living in New York City. His poetry explores ideas of race, sexuality, and their intersections. He is a graduate of Georgia College and State University and received his MFA from University of San Francisco. He’s been published in the anthology Not Just Another Pretty Face, Counterclock, Heard/Word, Mudroom Magazine, and others. He’s an avid reader and stan of Marvel comics especially the X-men. And he’s always on the lookout for the perfect margarita.

Daddy’s spit

I order a vial of your spit. Saliva isn’t one of my kinks, but another order is a sure way to get

your attention.

“On it man,” plus a winky face.

My body shakes as I reply “thanks Sir.”

“Good boy.”

I exit the page and shut my laptop. Yes, I’m Daddy’s good boy.

Tadgh Dolan is a queer writer based in Dublin. His short stories were published in Ragaire Literary Magazine and The Storms. He was shortlisted for the Write By The Sea Writing Competition, 2024 in the memoir category. In 2025, he was the recipient of the John Hewitt Summer School bursary. Instagram link: https://www.instagram.com/tadghdolan

First Taste

The room was silent,

Just our ragged breath

The taste of our lips together

Breathing hard, anticipating

My tongue finds his chest

Tracing the map of his ribs

Where his heart pounds waiting

I am hungry for the taste of him

He arches against my tongue,

His fingers caressing my head

Holding me down

Pulling my mouth onto him

I surrendered to the hunger

Every beat pulses against my lips

A frantic drum signaling

I drown in him

I take him in deeper

An ocean claiming its depths

His hips thrusting to meet my kiss

When he finally breaks

When sweet release comes

I swallow every hot wave of him

Tasting the salt of his sweet climax

His groan vibrating against my throat

He looks at me with a hunger

Desire still burning in his eyes

Marking me as his man now

As the man who had taken everything

He gave me his all and begged for more

Mark Farrell is a fifty year old queer man from Dublin, Ireland.  He has recently taken up writing poetry and has never been published before.  This is his first time being brave enough to submit his work.

Where is the Space Between Us?

His voice is like a caress when he says, “Pucker your lips.” We’re in a brightly-lit practice room

filled with black plastic chairs, dominated by a black baby grand piano which I love to touch

because it’s so hard and stabilizing as I sing, working from vocal warm-ups through to whatever

song is on our agenda. He sits at the piano and I stand. The softness of his adjustments as he

makes one perfect suggestion after another could be a kiss at the nape of my neck.

He is more than half my age: lanky, blond, effusive, charismatic, unostentatiously handsome and

he guides me through the wilds of voice lessons, of the right amount of breath, of posture, of

legato, of having a foundation, of thinking in images: “Your mouth inside is like a dome, you

want that space.” Oh yes my mouth inside…. Puckering helps me turn a long “u” vowel of a

German word into something softer, rounder.

We are somehow in sync as teacher and student, bonded as if we had always met at this place of

fusion and opposite poles. His advice can sometimes dazzle me because he reaches deep inside,

knows when I am overthinking, knows my mind as well as I do, knows how to tweak a word or

phrase for me, and when we laugh it’s as satisfying as any sex I have ever had. He studies my

lips, my tongue, how relaxed my jaw is—or isn’t—and I feel penetrated, seen.

Bjorn Hansen (he/him) is the queer son of wildly multilingual parents and wishes he spoke more than three languages.  He grew up in New York but got over it.

Deluge As Sacrament

There’s a mouthy one and a quiet one who follows the mouthy one’s lead. The two

mouth off to each other crossing the street, over drinks, sharing a cigarette as the quiet one

produces an empty pack he expects the mouthy one to make up for.

Maybe the quiet one’s not quiet. Maybe he wants the other’s mouth to pour into him all

the beauty he could never find in himself. The mouthy one shoots firework sparks tracing the

walls of John’s abdomen that slick down further than he’d like to admit.

They spar like no one’s watching, dancing in time to their tongues. John treats David like

a king, which means John might have to admit some day who he is to him and how he likes the

light glinting off David’s teeth—the way his cheek crooks like fresh growth in spring. But John

doesn’t think of such beautiful things or that he might be the cause of them. Not how that mouth

might feel against something inside that grows too deep for him to swim in—deeper than the

river that cuts through the city and gets lost in the sea.

He doesn’t want to get lost but he is, each glance a drink that burns his belly like a shot to

cap off the night. If he follows his feet, he’ll end up face in a zipper, and he wonders if that

could fill his emptiness. Sweat and spit pool on his pillow as he wakes next to David, sharing a

bed out of necessity not pleasure. 3AM, so he takes a piss and returns to watch his friend in the

LED glow, a moon waiting for his sun to rise, for his face to reflect all the light in the world.

John decides to kill this life at 22 when his uncle offers him a spot in a mechanic program

away from “that no good Gage boy.” This means moving to Jersey and leaving David behind at

their dead end pizza joint job. He keeps this quiet until the weekend before when David finds out

and grabs a handful of John’s apron underneath the stock room’s single bulb.

Next thing David’s teeth are in his mouth, lips pressed against his like hammer against

nail. His own hands reply instinctually, palming David’s cheeks as his mouth yields. He wants

David’s heat inside him. He wants him to warm the air he breathes and lift his heart to live at the

base of his throat. This is what he’s always wanted as David presses his face so close into his he

thinks they might merge into one.

And they try. The impossibility of it does not stop them from trying, and when the

impossible fails, David withdraws, pushing John away and leaving him in the past.

Twenty years pass before the pair speak again. When they do, they chat about David’s

ex-wife and Air Force career before shouting at each other on John’s back porch.

“I loved you, Johnny,” David shoves his finger into the air between them. “And that

wasn’t enough for you. Is this enough for you now?” He gestures to the empty house, air stale

from divorce and complacency. John doesn’t respond, instead turning on the light to the porch

and pulling at the hem of his worn cotton undershirt.

“I want to show you something,” John says, tossing the shirt on a chair and pointing to a

date tattooed over his heart. “Any time someone asks what this means, I say it’s the date I started

my life. Really, it’s that Friday you decided never to speak to me again. The day you died to

me.”

“The day I died to you?” David manages, his eyelids fluttering.

“Why are you here, David?” John asks expectantly as David draws near. There’s no

anger. Even if they could summon what they felt so long ago, that would slip away in favor of

the river of apology that moves between their lips. They feed each other with each breath, filling

the empty space with a warmth they’d abandoned back when they didn’t know how to tend to it.

John stumbles through the backdoor before the neighbors can glance over at the porch to

see David sucking at the stubble on his throat. He kicks the door closed behind them and falls

through the kitchen, bumping his back into the counter as David drags his mouth eagerly across

the layer of sweat left from the workday.

“I should really shower,” he resists, hands half-heartedly restraining David’s hips from

grinding against his. David inhales John’s scent to shut him up. His hands are solid against the

counter on either side of John’s waist, while John watches a flush bleed down his neck. He

remembers eyeing that flush for the first time at 15 after sneaking sips from the liquor cabinet,

wondering if the rest of David’s skin stained the same color. A moment passes before he

remembers he no longer has to rely on his imagination to know how David’s bare chest would

feel against his. His hands pull at the hem of his shirt, and David obeys, removing his top and

balling up the fabric. John wraps his arms around David’s back as he pulls their chests together,

pressing a kiss into David’s pink neck, but he can’t give himself permission to collapse into the

moment.

“The blinds,” he freezes, looking out the window above the sink. Without a word, David

draws the curtains then unfastens his jeans, shoving them to the kitchen tile. He stands there

undressed to his socks and the cotton straining against his cock. John wills himself to settle into

what David is offering him.

“I’ve always wanted to do something,” David admits as he palms the bulge in his briefs,

and the truth dawns on John for the first time.

He wants me.

“What is it?” John asks blankly as David settles against the sink, feeling the air soak up

every desperate breath between them. David’s eyes flicker to the floor then back to John’s face,

and he understands the command, kneeling in his work pants in the hopes he can bury David

inside him. He looks up at David from below, begging silently for permission to rest his face

between his thighs and let David do whatever he wants to him. John watches him smile from

above, haloed by the lamp above the sink, knowing he’s always wanted to submit to David’s

appetite.

“Let me piss in your mouth,” he presses his thumb and forefinger against John’s chin to

coax him, but John needs no convincing. He’s opened himself wide for whatever David wants to

give him, and David wastes no time removing his briefs, taking himself in hand, and tapping

himself on the tip of John’s tongue. He looks up into David’s eyes, sure this is exactly where

he’s supposed to be.

There’s a pressure in his throat as though he could choke on the sweetness spooling

inside him, and then David lets himself go—warmth spraying into his mouth before he presses

his lips around him as easy as downing a beer. He swallows what he can as David’s piss coats his

insides, and he wonders how they never managed to do anything, to get anywhere so long ago in

that shared apartment.

It’s not enough to be full of David, he thinks. I need to be covered in him.

So he removes himself from David’s cock and tilts his head back, allowing the stream to

pour down his chest. With the utmost reverence, he smears the warmth across his skin, over his

tattoo, onto his stomach where he unclasps his blue cargo pants and shoves a hand inside his

boxers to address the thick heat unraveling from what he’s denied himself.

It’s not enough, he thinks again, pressing his eyes closed and bowing his head so that he

can baptise himself into this new life David’s offering him. And when he’s properly soaking, he

returns his mouth to David’s cock, hollowing out his cheeks as he drinks. He can’t possibly

swallow everything, so he presses his lips together to allow what hasn’t been swallowed to leak

onto the polyurethane mat beneath them. He pants, catching his breath before returning his

mouth to the tip and running his tongue across David’s flesh to where he holds himself at the

base. With his free hand, he clutches David’s right hip before taking him in his mouth again,

intent on learning how every drop of him tastes.

“Fuck, baby,” David moans, and the words pour John over the edge through frantic

strokes. The answer to a question he asked long ago spills out of him into his hand.

If David was everything, then what was he?

His baby, he gasps through the bright pleasure bursting like a lit fuse sparking its

payload, and the phrase repeats as he rides the wave tearing through him. His baby. His baby.

His baby.

C. Show (they/them) is a Central Arkansan author whose work has been published in wildscape. literary, The New River Journal, and Navy Pen. Their hybrid chapbook GESTALT has been published by new words {press}; find out more about them on Instagram at @_cshow_