Lake water

We were in beach chairs, working on our sunburns, when I had this vision:

My body full of lake, water lapping in my ears, in sync with his thrusts. The more he fucked me, the more came out of me, until he was soaked, until we were both soaked, until the bed’s red blanket looked black and lake water poured down to the apartment below, so much so the neighbor pounded the ceiling with a broom. But the broom turned to seaweed, the neighbor dissolved. We surged. When I opened my mouth to moan, he looked inside and saw I was a lake, teeming alive and full. We fucked harder. I kissed him, he drank me, and we undulated until we were inundated in cloudy living sweetwater.

I looked over at him in his beach chair. I felt sun on my knees, sweat in my hair. I touched his hand, we stood.

We stepped into the lake.


Gretchen Uhrinek is a Pittsburgh-based writer. Her work can be found in The Longridge Review, The Pittsburgh Post-Gazette, Philosophical Idiot, and elsewhere.

Ideas for Wet Dreams

Sleep: clicked escape of then and gone, backed up to spring up in the slight twinge. Lush, bottom-of-the-well moss creeping over stony steps as the sun falls under the hill; it keeps growing in the shade. But in the dark of dream there’s the wedding day cousin’s chest poke running knuckle deep through the sternum, happening in pause between cricket legs’ chattery emissions flexed out at the heart. Quiver death in the assassin breeze shoving a pillow over a meadow tree, those branches still chirping.

Dreams live there, under that tree. And the warblings don’t communicate, they echo. Inside a hollowed pocket, a family of mice hides and hopes for winter to pass soon. One of them has a tingle of a Spanish accent on a Samoan face with a dress—topped off by this tight stretch of the boxers in fabric friction and, soon, it’s not a mousy tree but a fifth-grade classroom. You’re approached by your reflection naked in the locker room mirror. The shower sprays the chalkboard washing off the digits. It all feels so real as the squeaking M. Butterfly from Pago Pago reaches south, water streams down your neck. Bodies surround but you are alone if you want to be.

…Comes the thunderous domino buckle turning over the covers, the ducky face of pursed lips holding back. Drool smear dampens the right cheek, leaving stains like unfinished salt dumplings on the pillow between two branches, rooted inside, feeling so good inside. Thundercat plays on shuffle. The fading of his beard against yours, revolving like Davidian ring-around-the-rosy. The comforter is black, the Tide marker’s useless.


Gillick is from Virginia

Full Fathom Five

When the preacher in the pulpit warned me about a weeping and wailing and gnashing of teeth I thought it was figurative. And yet, here I am in the middle of the night with my desire an open, gaping wound. My sounds hide in the darkness not meant to be heard in sunlight. He is not here. An ocean away. Tide crashes and roils between us as the siren sings. I slither in the no man’s land of lucid dreams as my skin presses into the sheets. Fingers clutch and twist at fabric while I rub the smoothness of my cunt against well-worn flannel. I can feel him, his breath hot at my ear, a phantom riding me hard. If I turn over, I know I will stare into the black nothingness and release the spell. Instead my cheek rubs against the mattress and my mouth opens, lips parting to spill out the wail from the well inside. Legs part and knees press in search of a grounding I cannot find. My center flames, leaking wet and spreading into the ocean of us. I feel his hand wrapping my hair, winding it and pulling it until I’m anchored against him. His needs punish me and I capitulate to the pull of the moon. I am the figurehead carved into his prow, battling sea spray that steals my breath. He slides over me, submerges us both as we roll into the deep, falling a full fathom five.




Juliette van der Molen is a writer and poet living in the Greater NYC area. She writes completely unladylike erotica and other sundry things. She is a recipient of the Zathom Microfiction Award (third place, April 2018). Her work has also appeared in Memoir Mixtapes, Lit Up, P.S. I Love You, My Erotica and The Junction. You can find more of her writing at Medium and connect with her on Twitter as @j_vandermolen. Her debut chapbook, Death Library: The Exquisite Corpse Collection, is scheduled to be released in 2018 by Moonchild Magazine.

Adam, the first light sucking demon

A is for Apple and my read lips. A for just the right amount of anarchy. Adam’s fave Pandora mix is Electric Feel and always hungering for that blue ooze sound. it’s never enough even when the fingers come out of his fake mouth and attach to your lips and suck. It’s always about mouths.

Skin smooth as clay, missing one tooth for Camden town roughness charm. Warmth generated from his shoulders and back like all hell. He took his shirt off too quickly, didn’t realize there is an art to the seduction of light taking.

Most girls ran when they saw the holes in his back where his blades once were. Some morbid ones stuck around, listened to MGMT, got high, pretended not to care that the holes gaped and mouthed at them, opened and closed, like a flesh colored sea anemone.

When Blue Foundation was turned down, the flesh colored holes made tiny moaning sounds, siren-esque, their song turning stale and howling. Closer, a stench from the back, a darkness waiting to be satiated. Adam, in his peach house alone.




Jennifer MacBain-Stephens lives in Midwest and is the author of four full length poetry collections: Your Best Asset is a White Lace Dress (Yellow Chair Press, 2016), The Messenger is Already Dead (Stalking Horse Press, March 2017), We’re Going to Need a Higher Fence tied for first place in the 2017 Lit Fest Book Competition, and The Vitamix and the Murder of Crows (forthcoming in 2018.) Her work has been nominated for Best of the Net and the Pushcart Prize. She is also the author of ten chapbooks. Recent work can be seen at or is forthcoming from The Pinch, Prelude, Cleaver, Yalobusha Review, decomp, and Inter/rupture. Visit here here.

once a month

after masturbating it’ll smell like pennies. make sure there’s no stain. mandatory trip to the bathroom. check the toilet seat for a rorschach pattern. wash and scrub hands and fingernails. maybe even a change of panties. such a shame because you’re so horny and it’s so messy.


Marina Manoukian is a reader and a writer. She thinks language and sex are pretty, pretty, pretty important. She currently lives in Berlin, masquerading as a productive student working towards a Masters in English Philology. Find more of her words at

[decode open ends for deeper insights]

Should make myself a museum of all the come I have helped release. The width between my  spread-up thighs is the distance I travel to buy an idea of being loved. Some bodies offer. Some bodies receive. Debit what comes in, credit what goes. The second basic rule of accountancy. The negotiation between giving sex, receiving sex, and enjoying sex. The profile picture of the pursuit of love. A mouth rolled over the full length of a dick, lips blanketing teeth. Thoughts inside head sliding up and down as blood red petals fall to a chorus of he loves me-he loves me not. Your orgasm, mighty boyfriend, is the glue that will bring us together. I count moles on your chest while you’re trying to reach your end or wherever it is that eyes go after a small death. Seven years since mother. My pussy is dry, my mouth is dry. Dripping wet in my appetite for security in labels. Even watching a film is cumbersome with you. Slip on an intellectual condom over the sit back and enjoy part of my brain. I thought my cunt was big & fertile enough a hole to grow stability & commitment from. Stickier it gets, more you feel thirsty. I see your ass getting whipped by your boss in an open plan office You behind laptop forecasting peak seasons for glucose powder, slip into my chat window, ask, how I feel about making us sex only. How humid it the heart that goes across the equator


Preeti Vangani is an MFA candidate at University of San Francisco. Her work has been published or is forthcoming in BOAAT, Public Pool, Juked, Lines+Stars, Boston Accent Lit and Knicknackery. She’s a spoken word poet and has been performing at many local San Francisco events including Voz Sin Tinta and Kearny Street Workshop. Find her online.

The Invitation

Of course I was very pleased to be on the cover of Masturbator Magazine.

I was paid handsomely, not only for the cover that shows me completely

nude, but for the inside photos as well. Yet surprisingly I haven’t heard

from anyone who’s seen the photos of me. I felt confident it would lead

to meeting beautiful, lonely women who just use their hand or mechanical

devises for their pleasure. I can only think that a lot of women feel

embarrassed to acknowledge that they can’t find acceptable men with

whom to do it. They choose to keep men like me as a fantasy rather than

risk what they fear could lead to disappointment and rejection. All I can

say is, if any of the women who have seen me should read this, please don’t

hesitate to use the contact information at the end of my spread. Please

include a nude photo of yourself and times when you are available to meet.

I will definitely consider you and respond one way or the other. If chosen,

I’d be happy to come to your place or bring you to my own. But if you

didn’t feel comfortable with that, I’d be more than willing to pay for half

the motel, or even a hotel so long as the cost wasn’t over $100 per night

including use of a refrigerator. . .


Jeffrey Zable is a teacher, conga drummer who plays Afro-Cuban folkloric music for dance classes and Rumbas, and a writer of poetry, short fiction, and non-fiction. His writing has appeared in hundreds of literary magazines and anthologies over the past 40 years. Recent, or upcoming writing in Midnight Lane, Third Wednesday, Tigershark, Futures Trading, Colloquial, The Fear of Monkeys, and many others.

in polyamory-land, i think of relationships as pies & i texted this to a hot, beardy musician to entice him on a second date

in polyamory-land, i think of relationships as pies

each person brings what’s in their kitchen: peaches, candy bars, blueberries, lemon juice, frozen fruits, wheatgrass, lunch meats, ramen packets, toffee bits, sliced beets, chia seeds, protein powder, green peppers, edible flowers.  flavor negotiate: select none, select all, select a few.  you can sift, sort, stir, pour, fill measuring cups, fuck on the counter, drop to the floor, hit the bowl, spill the filling, taste the mess—faces pressed to shoulders licking skin.  maybe you start all over again, preheat the oven, add some gin, empty the bowl into a crust from the fridge, lay lattice slats in a pentagram, a cat’s whiskered face (or, if you must, boring criss-cross lines).  sacrifice the jiggly thing to the heat, pray it hardens, set the timer, have a full body orgasm, sneak in a toke, peak in the oven, poke in a knife.  has it set yet?   sigh impatiently, full of anticipation: lust after the smell, bet on deliciousness.  no time for cooling; you’re both drooling.  hands in each other’s mouths until you’re full & satisfied.  each pie process is unique to the bakers.  could you be satiated forever on a single list of flavors?

i texted this to a hot, beardy musician to entice him on a second date

at the end of your set, i approached the merch table
‘i appreciate your angst,’ popped out (i meant to say something playful)

i’m glad you didn’t think my post-show friend request was bizarre
you even messaged me cat pics! && we ended up at that trendy bar

i immediately liked the way you said ‘kissed’ as a synonym for dated
(&& if you’re wondering, i don’t think boston’s over-rated)

after hours of pleasant conversation, i invited you back to my room
i wanted to see if our kissing chemistry was a bust or a bloom

bloom it did && we found the freckles in our eyes do align
regardless of our incompatible astrological signs

normally, i don’t forgo my sleep schedule or bring strangers into my bed
but it was all worth it (&& so sexy) when you pinned my arms above my head

i’m not looking to fall in love or whatever, just for some flirtation
(&& a few casual encounters?) until our inevitable dating expiration

thanks for taking a break from being bored && alone to be my big spoon
what i’m trying to say is

       can i pick your beard hairs off my tongue again sometime soon?


Raina K. Puels is an MFA candidate at Emerson College and the Editor-in-Chief of Redivider. She leaves a trail of glitter, cat hair, and small purple objects everywhere she goes. You can read her in (b)OINK, Animal, Sidereal, ​and forthcoming in The American Literary Review, Occulum, and former cactus. Tweet her: @rainakpuels


from Every Breath You Take

I am in love with the man that opened that car door into which I, passing by, on a bicycle – new, as another had been freed, from in front of Out of the Closet, in the middle of a week night – now, a week later, wearing a helmet!, caught the right handle bar & rolled over the left, landing on the left clavicle, smacking the right tibia through the muscle and flesh against the bicycle frame, scraping various sections of skin against the recently redone concrete of Foothill Blvd, a street I am, like that man, in love with, that I hope has at least a little love for me, as I trust and feel that in these minutes it does.

We hurt and are hurt by the ones we love, that I think is what it means to be ecstatic, to feel the vulnerability of the ecstasy that is love, that makes its own loss possible because it’s over full, and that is as good as ecstasy, when you are or are not on ecstasy, because love and drugs are pretty much the same thing and that’s why we will never stop hating our war on drugs, which is a war on our illicit care ecology, cracked as the whole shebang is.

I am in love with the man that opened that door to me because I know that he did not see me before but he really saw me then, and I don’t need to be seen before, I just want to be seen when I’m with you, and hell it doesn’t even need to be me being seen, just feel me, lets feel each other somewhat, however you like.

He and a friend helped me up, put my stuff in the back of the car and drove me home giving what I thought was 50 turned out to 100 bucks because I didn’t call the cops.

I like to think I would never call the cops, but sometimes it is early morning and outside someone is shouting that they are going to get a gun to kill their partner and their partner’s mother, and the sound of their voice makes this threat seem less like a statistically-typified-as- normal variation on intimate partner violence – I have heard murder threats several times before – and I know that calling the cops, who come, I think, anyway, some days later, will not help anything but those shouts suggest to me that this person possibly needs support in getting out of this relationship, and possibly they need further support that no police officer, by nature of their social role, could ever offer, and therefore, no emergency medical technician can offer because if you call the latter you damn well better expect that the former could come too.

And so when I get home I call, this is before I smashed my phone screen yesterday, two days before, the primary person that I trust to be able to support me through the pain and get me to the emergency room because this shoulder is pretty fucked up.

Chelsea, whom had been ready to bike over to the scene of contact when I called her – the man was then afraid I was on the phone with 911, and tells me he has neither license nor car insurance – now I am here, comes outside, and I call a cab and we ride it to Kaiser.

It is the fastest emergency room visit I have ever had, there is practically no wait to see the triage nurse, and then there is only one other person getting x-rayed before me, and then the x-ray technician walks me over to where Chelsea and I wait to hear about what is to come of all this delightful mess.

I am practically having fun and am so happy to feel loved and cared for by this person I know so well and these people whom I know practically not at all, and only barely by their name and title.

I debate mentioning perceived races & genders, motley as they are, for I wish neither to reiterate racialization nor to participate in the delusions of colorblindness, but I don’t yet know how to do this.

For example, when I was out the night before all of this smoking weed before I did the dishes and/or fell asleep on the couch, as I do many nights, but on this night, having agreed with Chelsea that we would sleep in the same bed, having a deadline, I perceived the person I encountered on E 18th in front of our apartment to be a black woman, probably younger than me.

[Revisiting this, I wonder – what if that was Sadie Too Cold?

I can’t remember if I’d seen the graffiti before or after we met.]

She, if I may take that pronominal liberty, was shouting “fuck the police” in as many different ways as she could, some of which, given my understanding of the way some people use the word “punks,” were possibly homophobic in fact if not intention.

I said I could not, as she noticed me and approached, asking if I saw all the cop cars flashing down the street, nine of them.

So she grabbed the arm that now would have had me wincing, connected to fractured- collarboned shoulder as it is, and led me into the street so I could see.

Then she told me how they had all pulled up around her and she kept asking “am I free to go?” as she accused the officers, now and then, whom she identified as of more than one gender, of being sexually interested in her, as had been the man who reached for and touched her ass in the nearby corner store to which she had responded by throwing over shelves and things off of shelves.

The police told her, she told me, they had not yet enough evidence to keep her.

And as she told me all of this, and I listened carefully, she seemed to keep standing closer.

I would back up, trying not to back away so much to suggest any disturbance but simply because, high as I was, I wasn’t sure what this closeness meant.

I have control and understanding issues and generally find that I am uncomfortable when I don’t understand the meaning of intimacy though I want to be open to it and to learn to relinquish my need for control and understanding, though, concurrently, Chelsea and I generally weren’t having other sexual partners.

Besides, the point is the only things definitely sexualizing this closeness were my concern that it was sexual – intensified by disavowed but real unconscious raced and gendered projections – and my vulnerability to transference-love.

I guess this person had also said that the person whom had reached for and touched her ass hadn’t first paid her but I took that as a manner of speaking and not indicating anything.

In any case, it’s not as though someone doing sex work makes them any more desirous of intimacy with strangers, simply that they have found others’ desire for intimacy with them to be one way to pay for the life they want to live.

About then, she asked to hit what I was smoking and I gave it to her and apologized for not having offered sooner, stupefied as I was by things in my physiological state already susceptible to stupefaction.

She had to relight a few times.

I don’t remember where the lighter came from.

I wanted stay out to listen more, not least because of how flattered I was when she observed that, insofar as I hadn’t sided with the police in wishing her to be arrested on suspicion of property destruction, I wasn’t acting very white for a white person, no offense intended and none taken.

Then I perceived I offended by saying, after the weed’s light went out, that I had to go back inside.

I don’t know if this was bothersome because of how abrupt my leaving was, if she needed someone with whom to talk a bit longer, and/or if indeed the closeness of her body that I encountered suggested that she wanted to hang out in our apartment for a little and my disposition, generally and then, got in the way of me being able to read signals she in fact did intend to send, that I refused to receive because I am so afraid of acting on receiving messages that weren’t sent with my reading in mind.

Like when, in the hospital, Chelsea – who was at that moment upstairs waiting for me, irritated with how long I was taking, and this moment there with me in the room waiting to get my prescriptions and copay receipt – asked that we split the cost of his car repairs and I reacted as if she asked contrary to our prior agreements to share financial burdens through mixing sliding scale of capacity to pay and distribution of actual use.

Chelsea almost left, but we did together without the Norco they prescribed.


Julian Francis Park has poetry and narrative (forthcoming) in Blind Field, Entropy, Hold, Queen Mob’s Tea House, and Writing w/o Walls, reviews in Jacket2 and Tripwire, and a chapter, “On the Historical Conditions of Accumulation,” in Rosa Luxemburg: A Permanent Challenge for Political Economy. Julian works intake in Causa Justa/Just Cause’s Tenants’ Rights Clinic and organizes free education with the Bay Area Public School at the Omni Commons. Tweets @jfpark3

Migraines Come Slow

Not like Florida storms, sharp in the sky like an arrow. Not like the late summer light I cut with thick blinds. The migraines start cool, then numb. Then the throb. The pain. In the shadows, I write. The words come backwards, like how the morning glories curl now that they’ve run out of bodies to climb. Migraines and shadow work are the same—they make me say things I don’t mean to say, like, I need to buy spaghetti before summer ends today. They make me say things I really mean to say. I want you. My voice stretches the words long like when I was sixteen, tipsy with cheap red wine at a Greek club, downtown Clematis. Your teeth on my throat. Why do I think of him now, as I peel the papaya to reveal its sweet flesh. Why do I think of the freckle on his collarbone. My mouth surrounds it. Sucking. I think this headache makes me think backwards. It makes me reach for the piña with my left hand, makes me finger the tough leaves and imagine his hands squeezing my hips so tight they bruise. How you tremble under my tongue. I once wrote a poem about God slicing open a papaya and now I think of when sex used to be holy, when an orgasm could bring you prophecies from the lips of temple prostitutes. I try not to moan but it’s hard. I’ve never read his cards. If I did, I’d light a hundred beeswax candles with rose oil on my wrists. Then I’d spread the deck in a spiral. I wonder which ones he’d pick. The Lovers. Maybe the Ace of Cups. Maybe Temptation. I always curl my toes at the end. And just like that, the pain dulls. I peek out the window, wincing only slightly at the light. I pull the string and let the shadows out. Your chest on mine, sticky. Breath slowing. And I think I can stop now. Saying all the things I mean to say.


Raquel Vasquez Gilliland is Mexican-American poet and painter. Her first collection will be released April 2018 by Green Writers Press. You can find Raquel on her website: