Your Fingers Are My Favorite

Your fingers are my favorite

though much more could be said.

Whiskered whispers, wickedness,

you hold me down in bed.

Brown eyes going black on top

as you push so deep inside;

the way I always stretch for you,

how you never let me hide.

It’s the tease inside your touch,

fingertip against my clit

that breaks me down

to who I am, compels me to submit.

And when those fingers enter,

I hold them in so tight.

Two commas curl inside me

remove all wrong from right.

A magician with a flourish,

you wield them like a trick.

Your fingers are my favorite thing

to feel and then to lick.


Kristin Garth is a poet from Pensacola and a sonnet stalker. In addition to Horny Poetry, her sonnets have stalked magazines like Luna Luna, TERSE. Journal, Occulum, Anti-Heroin Chic, Drunk Monkeys, Ghost City Review, Neologism Poetry Journal and many other publications. Her chapbook Pink Plastic House is available from, and her second, Shakespeare for Sociopaths, is forthcoming from The Hedgehog Poetry Press in January 2019. Follow her on Twitter: @lolaandjolie

I Love The Way You Say ‘Fuck’ & Our Two-ness

I Love The Way You Say ‘Fuck’

I’m in the palm of your hand—

both figuratively and literally

You say:

“I’m so into you”

I say:

“both figuratively and literally”

You laugh from between my legs

twist your wrist

quote Lacan

into the skin of my thigh.

your voice is vibrating

as it gets muffled into me

I can’t comprehend much

except my grip on the pillow

except my mouth forming frantic, filthy

endearments muffled into

my own palm.

I hold the words there

stretch them outward to you

stroke your cheek with them

when you look up at me.

Our Two-ness

Thinking about you

eating me out makes me

cry now.

You said it was the

closest you’ve ever gotten

to meditating.

You said this while

I was on my back on the floor

in my parent’s basement.

I’m at work now. I thought about

that a lot though, you know,

at work.

“Fuck, Baby,” you’d say—

in your eyes I’d see my face

reflected back.

Even when you weren’t talking

your mouth

always moved dialectically.

Now, instead of heat and blood—

warm syrup pouring

into my stomach and lower—

my heart beats a funeral dirge.

I wear black panties in mourning.


Alyssa Ciamp is a scientist, a writer and an aries continually growing into herself. She tweets regularly about her work and also about the woes of being horny @ClinicallyChill. Find more of her work on her website:



his lips are the ellipses between my clumsy words.

I tell him I like you too but what I mean is

I’m two beers away from calling him God,

a glass of wine away from losing

all feeling in the upper hand.

the folds of my body open like

evening primrose, like petals thrown

on dishevelled mattress, pinot noir languor,

murmuring to the candles, to myself, to all

that is melting and wavering

to lie still for him.

change fell from his pockets as I watched him get dressed

and he left it on the nightstand like payment.

he told me I was perfect, but what isn’t

perfect by candlelight?

he keeps me like a wildflower in tap water,

like half-finished poetry. I keep him like

a spellbook under my mattress.

what is an affair but looking

for a self you lost in someone else?




Rebecca Kokitus is a part time resident of Media, PA just outside Philadelphia, and a part time resident of a small town in rural Schuylkill County, PA. She is an aspiring poet and is currently an undergraduate in the writing program at West Chester University of Pennsylvania. She has been previously published by Philosophical Idiot, Lemon Star Mag, and Show Your Skin Journal. She tweets at @rxbxcca_anna.


Jealousy and the Poetics of Pain

One night at a private party, a dominant removed his belt, strapped me to a BDSM horse, and caned my ass and upper thighs. I screamed, yelped, wailed, and cried. Expressing myself like this is one way I navigate pain.

Jealousy also hurts. If you are like me, it makes you cold. And somehow it also burns. And your mind spins around and around, again and again, incessant. Luckily, there are ways to control jealousy, ways that can be uncovered by examining its poetics.

Poetics is a literary theory that can be traced as far back as Aristotle. Its bare bones are language, character, and drama. For me, the language of jealousy intermingles with the language of insecurity and fear.

To go back to BDSM, consider that dominants work hard. Even when they are not physically exerting themselves in such activities as flogging, spanking, or supporting your endorphin-zonked body, they have invested precious time and mental energy into figuring out how to best fuck your head. If you are like me, you wonder how it is that you could possible deserve this level of attention. Once you have questioned your worthiness, you start to believe you are not enough.

Furthermore, insecurity is not only about self-esteem; often times it stems from a fear of loss. According to psychotherapist Esther Perel, to know “that you’re replaceable, that you’re disposable, that you’re not unique” is an “unbearable truth.” However, one way to bear the insecurity that results from recognizing that truth is to trust your dominant. They chose you and you should respect that since you respect them. Just as you might take pride in forging a new threshold for pain, you should also take pride in having been selected by your dominant.

Using pride to combat insecurity is not easy, especially when the drama of jealousy – for me, threat and humiliation – comes into play. Clinical psychologist Lisa Firestone writes, “The ‘sexy secretary’ and ‘college love’ are rarely the threats we think they are, but the overwhelming, possessed state of suspicion we enter because of these characters, can be a real hazard […]” When I experience jealousy, this “overwhelming, possessed state,” manifests in me tormenting myself with elaborate imaginings. Literary critic Parul Sehgal says, “When we feel jealous, we tell ourselves a story […] about other people’s lives, and these stories make us feel terrible […] As the teller of the tale and the audience, we know just what details to include, to dig that knife in.”

Did he press her against a wall? Bend her over? What kind of noises did she make? Did he close his eyes when he climaxed? Did he say her name? Did she say his?

Over coffee, a writer friend joked that his wife was “ok” with him hanging out with me, but not with other female friends. It amused him that his wife thought any female he came into contact with had salacious intentions toward him, especially since he was too tired from studying and parenting to even think about women. “You’re a very busy man in your wife’s head,” I said. I was teasing, but I also sympathized with her. She was driving herself crazy with her imagination. I have done it many times.

That jealous energy can be a turn-on is certainly not a new idea (look no further than Shakespeare’s Othello). When combined with storytelling, what emerges is essentially fantasy, and sharing the fantasy is one way to mitigate jealous pain.

I remember attending a party one summer with my then-boyfriend and his friend. The three of us ran into a woman that my boyfriend’s friend had dated. While exchanging greetings, my boyfriend enthusiastically complimented her on how good her bikini-clad body looked. Needless to say, it was an awkward exchange. She looked uncomfortable. I felt humiliated. If he had privately shared his observation with me beforehand or told me in the car on the way home, if he had included me in this way, perhaps I could have taken that jealous energy and made up a story that ended with both of us getting off together. However, since I felt excluded, I was unable to eroticize that jealous pain.

In my first relationship with a dominant, my ability to eroticize jealousy came in quite handy. He worked at a club and it was his job to play with others. The first time I watched him play with someone was only a few weeks after we had gotten together so new relationship intoxication was in full bloom. Against that, the instant cold I felt at the sight of him with another partner was a harsh contrast. But still there was a persistent buzz under my skin that I had to acknowledge. I watched him, watched them, took in how beautiful he was, and viola! I was eroticizing.

This is not to say that watching him with others ever became easy or that eroticizing always works. It truly depends on the partner. For instance, I once had a one-night-stand where, during foreplay, the guy talked about how “hot” it would be if we had a threesome with our mutual coworker. Instantly, I was turned off; this guy was not someone with whom I had developed any significant bond. Capitalizing on jealous energy by eroticizing it requires first that there be a bond.

As a submissive, I have ways to endure the physical pain of playing, ways that are tied to trust as well as to the presence of pleasure alongside the pain. Examining the poetics of my jealousy has shown me how I mitigate the pain I experience at its hands and it is not all that different from how I would navigate BDSM-inspired pain. For me, jealousy means feeling insecure, threatened, humiliated, or fearful of loss, but it can also be a space where I connect with my partner through storytelling and erotic pleasure. And for those times eroticizing does not work to ease my jealousy, my partner can cane it out of me.


Nadia Davi is a control freak from Southern California. When she is not obsessing over cephalopods and little black dresses, she is obsessing over words, her favourite of which is swagger. Her novella, Play Thing, is available now through Amazon.

Act Now

If the flowers decline to tell the bees why
they are tasked with stretching the thread
of continuance all the way to the garden’s edge
—or why they must adumbrate its shaky lace
even in the face of hard hands or a wet
summer—then why should we have to move

so far from this godly meadow, one move
shy of the brutallest checkmate? At the Y
I watched your legs resist equipment, wet
like the dogs no one shakes or the thread
no one can make go into the needlelace
because it’s borderline, too near an edge

to manipulate. If I ask you to edge
before I get home it’s because I move
too slowly anyway—I want to lace
your bones with shimmering desire, the why
to want’s what, the unhidden thread
we lay bare in the rich, soily wet

of mid-May, our brief spring’s groaning whet-
stone. Who brought us to the edge
of living? Which forum thread
told us the exact dimensions of the move
we needed to make, and why
on earth didn’t we tell anyone? Two lace-

less cleats, cast up high in the one place
you’ll never be able to reach them. A sweat
ring wrung permanent in the bedclothes. Why
not fool around a little before work, at the edge
of our shared wakefulness? Don’t move,
I’ll turn off this seemingly endless thread

of alarms, your morning body’s warmth red
and breathing next to mine. If my place
in the universe were at even a small remove
from yours, my ugly heart would pirouette
out across the roof of the world to a ledge
off which I’d leap / towards you. This is why

I’m so afraid to thread your wet
hair anyplace but through mine. The edge
is too close to move. I hope you see why.


By Nathanielle Dawn

Horny Poetry Review to publish on a rolling basis

hi! we’ve discussed how we can make HPR a bit better for everyone in this weird little community that seems to be growing around our shared filth, and the outcome is this:

HPR will publish on a rolling as of today, rather than spaced out “issues”

we think this means:

  • you get a quicker reply on your work when you submit ❤
  • we get to publish as and when we get time 🙂
  • we can hopefully publish more over the long term !!

will we ever return to issues? probably at some point, but we’d like to try this for now.

so if you have something that’s too hot and heavy to be discussed on the Paris Review podcast, then please send it to us instead