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.