The Old Boy Story

by Aria Riding

Once upon a time, a man is kidnapped and imprisoned for about seventeen years without knowing his crime or his accuser.  When he is released, he meets a young woman and they fall in love.  When they are about to marry, they discover they are father and daughter.  Of course this is unsupportable and they feel very bad and separate, although they feel a great pain, because their love is a true love.  In time the man meets another woman and they fall in love.  As it happens, she too is his daughter.  She feels heartbroken and he feels heartbroken and confused.  They separate.  They divorce.  He meets another woman. They make love.  They fall in love.  She is also his daughter.  This happens two or three more times.

Finally, the man swears he is unlucky in love and that he will never marry.  The woman sitting across from him on their date says, I wanted to say exactly the same thing.  In this moment, their eyes meet and they fall into deep deep love.  They marry and after a little bit discover they are brother and sister.  They separate, and like all the other women before her, she never tells him about the pregnancy.  In fits of ecstasy and despair the man marries and separates from three more women, all of them undiscovered sisters.

The hapless guy gives up on love; he thinks, I will never be able to meet a woman.  And from time to time, he mopes, Who is it that imprisoned me and condemned me to this crazy fate?  My crime must have been really terrible and my punishment, to be related to and forbidden from love, it must be justified.

The man decides to go into seclusion and enters a monastery.  All of the monks are very quiet and kind, and he thinks, A little bit sad, he thinks, With guilty consciences like me.  They rarely speak and their nods and acknowledgments are infrequent, and if their eyes meet, there’s usually a little flash of knowing, a little flutter, a little color in the cheeks.  The head monk is very warm and kind.  His gestures are more effusive and bourgeois than the man would have expected from a monk.  This elderstatesman starts to invite the man into his chambers for tea and philosophical conversation and they play board games which seem kind of symbolic.  One thing leads to another.  The man is resistant at first but he rationalizes to himself, This man is much older than me, he cannot be my daughter or my sister, and as I’m condemned to never meet a woman, maybe I can accept at least the touch of this old man.  It takes time, but attachments form (in May).  After a few years the man is finally able to admit he loves the old man as they lie in a soft, sunlit embrace.  The old man says, Of course, it’s only natural for a son to love his father.

The man cries out, Father, I’ve been so unlucky in love!  He extrapolates: I was imprisoned for something like seventeen years, and since I was released, I have only unwittingly loved my own daughters and sisters, and now, my own father.  And to make matters worse, I don’t know my crime or my mysterious accuser, but I must have been the worst kind of person to be punished this way.  The father is taken aback, Son, you’re taking it all the wrong way.  Please stop torturing yourself and feeling so bad, you didn’t do anything wrong.  It was I who imprisoned you.  You are a good boy, just like all of your brothers.  The old man gestures broadly towards the grounds beyond the window, indicating all of the other monks going about their daily chores and meditations which usually lost focus, unraveled and reassembled into contemplative orgies.  You see, we are a very loving family, and what I did, I did out of love for you, because I loved you so much I wanted to keep you for myself.

Then the man saw that every trial in his life had had to unfold exactly as it did, love upon laboriously planned and awkwardly unseemly love, so that he could now naturally, and of his own accord, fall into the loving arms of his father.  And he did.  And there they stayed, father and son lovingly making love … until some young man that the man did not yet realize was his own son showed up at the monastery and the embrace of the two monks slackened as their hips both swiveled towards their new great love.

Aria Riding, 1977, is an artist and performer; the body of her work is about intimacy, mutations of love and intimacy, holding intimate time and space, limits of the mind and body, and the poetry that comes from exposing or being exposed by these limits.   She likes doing music and dance training with special abilities people.  Her writing, painting and sculpture collections are entitled the Book of Total Darkness and Grinder Family Archives.  Her performance work incorporates butoh dance, theater, installation, literature, and altered states like Hysteria, prisons, obsessive compulsive disorders, bloodletting, love.  She has co-directed the performance group, Danse Perdue since 2002, and the Teatro de la Psychomachia (a theater, art and workshop studio located in Seattle, U.S.A.), since 2010. Since 2005, she has performed, exhibited, and taught in different places in the United States, and, always by the grace of Flavia Ghisalberti, in different parts of Europe and Russia.  She can’t update her website from her fainting couch, but can look her up at

Sex Positive!

i’m not here to tell you what to do with your saucyparts or your goods, but we all need to finally realize that being SEXY and SEXUAL is for everyone- no matter what body type, shape, gender, sexual preference or part of the rainbow! boy parts, girl parts, dirtybits, trans, no-no spots, special purposes, whatever!

because we all need a little boost now and again- here are some AMAZING sex positive tumblrs!
i guarantee you’ll find something to make you smile! (among other things.) ENJOY!

oh- and these are SERIOUSLY nsfw- so wait until you get home where you can (ahem) view these with more privacy *coughs*… because you will!

love your body! love yourself! be sexy! be pervy!
(didnt i just say i wasnt going to tell you what to do? but these are good things- and you should do them!)


Becoming ballsy

by Thomas Stevens

Troy wore a deep pink t-shirt and black jeans over an athletic expanse of body. His wide upper back, a weightlifter’s back, tapered to a butt like a couple ripe plums. His chest arced outward, stalwart as if on guard duty; when he turned, the tip of a nipple registered. His stomach was a short stretch of plain leading to stallion’s legs, tough, graceful, a glory to look at, say, as he played lacrosse, running to catch a ball in his stick head. Likewise a glory to look at was his hair, dirty blond hair that encased his head like the helmet of a centurion (I’d seen Ben-Hur).

In class he delivered comments to the American literature teacher in a baritone voice that projected lasting firmness. Once he said: “I was surprised that we’d be reading Huck Finn but now I see it’s the sharp contrast to My Antonia”—opening the palm of his right hand—“to the narrator, the voice of the narrator that is”—closing his palm—“the unforgettable point.” I saw his palm opening and closing and drank in his steady flow of words, and I wanted his unforgettable point, the one at the head of his shaft, grazing up my chest, my neck, my face, into my mouth…he doesn’t even see you.

“Any other thoughts?” our teacher was saying. “Going once, going twice…” “Huck was a bore!” I shouted out. “I was much more interested in Antonia’s fate—I mean—the fate she creates for herself,”—Troy had turned his dirty blond head, now he saw me—“given her strength and—resourcefulness.” I looked from the teacher to Troy still looking at me with his lake-blue eyes, still, resolute. “And Huck is not strong and resourceful?” the teacher said. “You got me there,” I answered, dutifully doing a sheepish grin. I was always dutiful.

On my way from early 20th c. American literature to AP French and No Exit, I felt a hand touch my shoulder, give it a squeeze, and release. Surprised, I turned my head. Then I stopped and turned around. I was facing him, the mesmerizing beauty of him.

“Smart comment you made in there. On target. You should speak up more,—.”

“Definitely speak up more, David. It was good to hear from you. Well, see y’around the campus,” Troy said, flashing a smile at me as he walked on, an effusive smile that colored his cheeks and enlivened his eyes. It was a smile that threatened to melt my defenses (such as they were) and harden my dick into a flagpole, flag aloft.
I did see him around the prep school campus, but he was generally in fervent conversation with one or two other guys, the same guys, whom I came to think of as his entourage. They were not unattractive; neither were they Troy. When he walked by without his entourage, he had a remote expression on his upturned face, as if something were calling to him from far away, and I dared not so much as say “hi”. Although I was not speaking to him, I was speaking up more in the American literature class, as he had urged me, that one time, to do.

I pointed out, “Though we hear a lot from Darl, it’s Cash who gets my attention. He’s the one who’s doing something constructive, making the coffin for his mother as she lies dying. Speaking of which, there’s something about his mother that’s always been dying, in the sense that she’s never been alive to love. I think Cash is alive to love.” I pointed out, “It’s ironic that it’s called the Brotherhood. I can’t imagine anyone feeling the love from this group. It’s like 1984. Or Animal Farm.” Referring to Orwell was leaping onto a limb, but my goal, Troy-propelled, was to speak up. And speaking up generated more speaking up—about Fahrenheit 451 and The Bluest Eye—a good thing to do, I told myself, and virtue is its own reward, I told myself, on my way in mid-April to Albert Camus and The Stranger…I felt a hand touch my shoulder, squeeze it, and release.
This had to be Troy. His summons, maybe to something more rewarding than virtue. Maybe not. Whichever, I don’t want it now, I told myself, and I kept walking.

That voice, deep and level. I turned, but I kept walking. A little awkward to walk backwards, but not much.
“Troy, I can’t stop.”
“You’ve been able to stop, before.”
A matter-of-fact statement.
“On to French 3,” I said, turning, and walked off.

Troy didn’t follow me, but a rush of thoughts did—I hope that didn’t sound like “French me,” of course not, I don’t want him to french me, in my mouth or in my ass, methinks you doth protest too much, brain, brain, go away, come again in the next class. My brain didn’t come in French class. It didn’t come after class. A hand touching and squeezing my shoulder did.

I broke helplessly into a smile.
“Do you always say hello like that?”
“What are you doing this afternoon?”
“You first.”
I got an uncomprehending look that I assumed was disingenuous. I stood there.
“Well, do you always say hello—?”
“Only to the creeeaaam of the crop. Ok, you answer me.”
“Working in the garden. I promised my father—.”
“Too bad. Come on!” he exclaimed and ran off.
“Come on!”

I figured, if curiosity hadn’t killed the cat, then boredom would have, and I ran after Troy who ran out the fiberglass double doors leading from French (and Spanish, German, and Latin) to the outside, specifically, a field in back of the school that led to poplar trees that lined a little river. Troy, lacrosse guy, was easily a faster runner than my un-athletic self, and soon he had disappeared from my view. Both baffled and stung, I ran faster toward the river. He had to be somewhere along it. Not quite. Troy was doing the sidestroke in the river. Naked.

“Boldness has genius, power, and magic in it!” he yelled at me. “Said Goethe, anyway! Come on in!”
I looked down at my dark blue button-down shirt tucked into brown chinos.
“You know what they say about he who hesitates!”

I unbuttoned my shirt and pulled it over my head, slid off my belt and chinos, gray socks and loafers, and—yes, I thought, boldness—my black boxers. I ran into the river, kicking up water around me, and plunged forward into a breaststroke. I swam for a third of a second, maybe, when Troy caught my arm and pulled me back to shore, as if I were a dysfunctional dinghy.

“Here,” he said, in shallower water. “Here we can stand.”
He put his hands on my hips and flipped me, from flat and afloat, back to upright and standing. Something else, I sensed, was moving upright, but all I said was “I know how to stand,” or, rather, I started to say that, because Troy pressed his lips onto my lips and his hands onto my ass cheeks. If beforehand I’d ever been like chaste Daphne resisting lustful Apollo, I was like her no longer. I took Troy’s right hand and brought it to my ass crack. Right away, I felt a finger up my ass, then a second, and a third, like the barrel of a gun, a warm-blooded gun, sliding, pressing, relaxing me, slow like a massage at first—like a massage for my butt—then fast and deep, in, out, in, out, while his palm brushed my left ass cheek. I shut my eyes. I didn’t want to sense anything else but his fast fucking motion.

Troy took my right hand and brought it over so that it was cupping his balls, then my left hand and brought it over so that it was gripping his dick.
“You know what to do,” he said.

I do? I do. I’ve got to. I buried my face in his smooth chest, the chest that before I’d only dreamed of, and I lapped it up and down, and licked and nibbled his right nipple; I stroked up and down his hardening shaft (I was getting my god hard!) and then covered his cock head with my palm (talk about the cream of the crop); I caressed his balls and followed it up with a squeeze like he’d squeezed my shoulder in greeting, firm so he felt my grip but not rough—and caress, then squeeze—caress and squeeze.
“You do know what to do,” he said and, taking his fingers out of my ass (alas), he twisted and bit hard into my nipples (yes).

I felt my body about to give way and fall back into the river, the brisk river currents, when Troy’s right hand slid down my torso and onto, lightly, my acute erection. I’d become erect fast, too fast to notice when it happened. My dick was really like a flagpole now, hard like aluminum, sticking up and about to spurt. The French phrase du calme suddenly came into my head, and it seemed that something like it had come into Troy’s head also, because he murmured, “Hold back, hold back,” as he slowly stroked my shaft.
Re-focusing on the mud on my feet, I held back. Detachment didn’t last. I gripped his thighs, hardened by the rigor of sports. I licked all over his chest, and his neck, and his ears, as if I were a dog licking its master.

“One more thing,” I said, low and fast into the ear I’d been licking, clasping the hand that was stroking me.
The hand stopped, followed by a courteous and curious “Yes?”
“I want you to—.” I stopped—I do?—I blurted, “—rub your dick against my ass. Cheeks.”

I felt my face cheeks go red. I sound like a porn movie. He’ll laugh at me. He’ll leave me here. He didn’t laugh or leave. He touched my face and smiled and kissed me. He did to me, gently, what I wanted him to do to me, and the rubbing motion of his dick against my ass cheeks sent torpedoes of ecstasy through me, and with a spasm I spurted and spurted and this time I did give way, and I fell back into Troy’s embrace.

Troy leaned over against my neck and intoned, in that baritone voice, that projected lasting firmness, “You are mine, yes, you sweet lovely boy, you are mine.

Thomas Stevens has been traveling through the genres for 36 of his 45 years. Recently he incarnated as a poet and self-published a book of poetry inspired by Joan Armatrading’s song “More than One Kind of Love.” Even more recently, after reading an anthology of gay male erotica, he decided to try his hand at writing gay male erotica. Resident of Roslindale in Boston, MA, Stevens commutes to an outdoor cafe in Boston’s South End to produce his writing.

Reflections of Sin

by Dean Mcmanus

They like to experiment.
New things are common in their bedroom these days. James has always been more favorable to the vanilla, but Thomas likes to spice things up. Nothing as of yet has made them regret it. Though he’d been more than vocal in his appreciation for the idea of a mirror – a huge one, at that – at the foot of their bed.
Thomas had put a stop to his idea of it on the ceiling. There’s kinky and there’s tacky.
He’s likin’ this too though. His lover on his knees at the edge of the bed, back straight and pressed to James’ front. Whereas Thomas’ bare, James is still wearing his belt and jeans, and it gives a surreal sort of awareness when Tom remembers that fact. James’ got an arm around his waist, helping to keep him upright, and his lover’s got one arm lifted and wrapped around James’ neck, the hand on the opposite arm braced on one of the denim-clad hips behind him. Their eyes meet and hold in the mirror across from them as he mouths at the curve of a pale shoulder. Fingers are slick and sure as they grip and pull, up and down and back again. No tricks, just the bare basics to get his lover going.
Slowly, as the minutes pass, the bare chest in full view begins to heave, a thin sheen of sweat dusting his collarbone and a drop of it traveling in the hollow behind Thomas’ ear. James catches it on his tongue, feeling the vibration of the moan his lover releases as he does so.
Still he doesn’t speed up, he doesn’t move things further, he doesn’t allow Tom to do so either. He brings him to the edge and then stops, over and over again until Thomas has forgotten that English is in his repertoire, until he’s cursing and begging in every language he knows.
They progress when James nudges those hips with his own, and releases the hold he has on him. Quick on the uptake, Thomas moves and braces his hands on the dresser that holds the mirror up, precariously balanced between the space of flooring that separates their bed and the other furniture.
The drag of the zipper is almost deafening, but the moan Thomas gives when James finally gives what he’s been asking for is the best sound by far. Needy and frantic, hips have little to no rhythm. Their eyes are still held in the reflective surface only inches from them, and they only close when the long awaited release is nearly ripped from each of them.
Later, soaking in the afterglow and catching their breath, James stops the trail of kisses he’d been leaving over a spine that still occasionally shivers to murmur: “We’re totally keeping the mirror.”
Thomas’ laughter is just as sated as his own, so he’s okay with it.

About the author- “I’m twenty-three and I live in a small town in Texas. I started writing erotica at a young age, mostly through online roleplaying until I could gather my footing and confidence to do it on my own. I was an English Major during my time in college and hope to be going back to that soon. I have a family of my own, including a four year old stepson that keeps me busy.
I love to write in my free time, and I just hope everyone enjoys it as much as I do.”

Wanted and Worthy.

by Dean McManus

It’s wrong.
It’s forbidden, it’s a sin, it’s taboo and *dangerous.*
It’s *right* and *beautiful* and *addicting.*
They’re not supposed to.
They are anyway.
They’re young, they’d be told everything they already know. Wrong, dangerous, filthy. They’d be sent elsewhere, beaten until the devil was out of them. It’s a weird age, where the roads are still dirt, they’re barely old enough to be allowed in the Saloon, and James is due to find his brother and go hunting for that night’s meal.
Thomas probably should have been home hours ago, and there’s no doubt that Jack is out and looking. They’d had to get more creative with their hiding places recently, the bathrooms and the sheds too well known by both of their brothers, and though they are willing to cover for them, it only lasts so long.
It’s quick and dirty, the flat of James’ palm pressed tight against an open mouth to stifle the sounds, and only his will stopping his own. Each breath is too short and burns his lungs, the hand trapped between the leather of his trousers and his own skin working him quickly, and James’ doing much the same in the way of returning the favor. Their shirts had already been rucked up, so used to this that they know the tricks and ways to make it a quick and easy clean up.
When they finish, it’s with stuttering movements and James biting down on Thomas’ shoulder through his clothes, and Thomas’ muffled curses in god knows how many languages painting his skin. When they let go, the draw to each other is still intense, almost dramatic even though they know their time is so limited. The kiss is lazy and unhurried, his words written with the trace of his tongue.
“James-” It’s barely heard, reluctance in the form of his name. Said man stalls the words that would come next with another kiss, kept chaste, yet lingering. “I know.” They’re still a little out of breath, but by the time they’ll be out of there it’ll be back to normal. They’ve got it down to an art. It’s a thought that when he’s alone, brings his mood down to the point of whiskey and bruising his knuckles. The truth can’t be changed, at least not yet.
Their clothes are fixed and hair patted back into place, mess contained. As per usual, Thomas leaves first.
It’s barely thirty seconds before he hears the familiar lilt of Jack’s voice, more exasperated than anything, telling his brother to hurry on home before they get whipped. Again. Because though they’re of age to be legal, you’re never too old for a lashing.
By the time James leaves, Sam’s given up searching. But when he gets home, he gets an earful. James needs to be careful, to stop, to quit before he’s hung in towns square.
Halfway through the act of brushing through his horse, Sam’s finally had enough and asks the question they’ve both been waiting for.
Is he really worth it?”
When James stops, all movement ceasing and his shoulders a tense line, Sam swallows rough and dry. He knows the answer before it comes.
“Yeah, Sammy. He is. Now drop it.”


About the author- “I’m twenty-three and I live in a small town in Texas. I started writing erotica at a young age, mostly through online roleplaying until I could gather my footing and confidence to do it on my own. I was an English Major during my time in college and hope to be going back to that soon. I have a family of my own, including a four year old stepson that keeps me busy.
I love to write in my free time, and I just hope everyone enjoys it as much as I do.”

When I Used to Love

by Mr. Wolf

I used to love…
When he would hold and kiss me
When times were better
When we didn’t care who saw
When we just discovered our feelings
When I found him again on Facebook
When he told me he loved me
When we held hands
When we held each other
When we slept in each other’s arms
When I was 17 and he was 20
When we were a grade apart
When we were in the JROTC
When we made love for the first time
When we cuddled in the backseat
When time knew no bounds for us
When we were two kids in love
When our hearts were synchronized
When our souls were one

Then…the heartbreak
When I found out he wasn’t the one
When he left me for someone else
When I used to love


“Mr. Wolf,” was born and raised in Detroit, MI. He graduated from Cass Technical High, but still hangs around with his younger friends from time to time. He’s 18, and has his share of hustles to get by. He loves to write and debate. He is also a Liberal Republican, defending both the NRA and gay marriage. He’s bisexual, and looking for his love once again. This poem is based on his relationship with a former schoolmate, and the first time he was in a relationship with another guy.