Archive for the ‘Fiction’ Category


6 feet from sobriety

perhaps, bitches

when the sun

has risen

6 feet

from our

sobriety &the

bottle

of

whiskey

has been emptied

into

the “essential“

of norm …

 

like i said,

perhaps

until then,

where the fuck

is my mask?

 


a man and his pizza

 

you visit again

6 feet apart

from my balcony

to yours

bitching again

about the pandemic

about how you need

genuine and emotional

physical contact,

bars

to pick up women in,

friends

to take road trips

and head trips with,

places

to lounge, drink coffee

and plug`in to

and how

you`re liable

to cut off your own arm

just to hear

yourself scream;

your cell pings

dominos pizza is sitting

outside your door

you light up

with giddiness

‘cause even you realized

that things

weren’t really that bad

so long as

no one fucks

with pizza


Choosing Nicknames

 

My name’s Nicholas Romanov. I give myself the nickname, “tsar.” I print it on cards for my piano school. Nicholas “Tsar” Romanov, Instructor.

 

     Pupils question me. Who gave you that right? Nicknames are earned, they proclaim with righteousness. Nicknames are predicated on allergies. Tics. Quirks.

 

     I tell them people ought to assign their own nicknames. It’s demeaning to have others label on an arbitrary basis. They used to nickname me freak and nerd because I preferred Tchaikovsky over pogs.

 

     I print up more cards, TSAR emblazoned in largest letters.

 

     I lose business, stand firm. I dispense more cards.

 

     I’m a tsar.


river Lily

 

your

whiskey drinking

is handless,

he said

ripping my panties

off

my hips,

 

it`s like a river

that doesn`t

flow

straight


Postscript

It was Marty McBride. However, this was no ordinary Marty. This was non-representational, abstract Marty and he began with his expressionism. He turned blue and, as Yves Klein, dove upon Akimbo. Akimbo, flustered, admired the monochrome; he was a fan of Klein.

Pity he died so young!” Akimbo yelled as he dropped the ax. Akimbo threw the blue imitation Klein-creature off. Marty as Klein and blue was getting his chance. He’d stop the big murderous opinionated poseur bastard Akimbo. He’d do it to save the combination color scheme challenged and color-blind in the Culvert of Altaloona. No longer would Akimbo and his compatriots those minions of the Artistic Standards Board wreak havoc on artistic invention. Let freedom ring!

Creature Marty Klein morphed. Marty remained determined to stop Akimbo but now he wore a Jimi Hendrix face. What’s more, from somewhere, somehow, he’d acquired a large potato and was using it as his body. He was propelling this potato body with uncooked spaghetti stick legs stuck into manzanilla pimiento stuffed “feet.” Indeed, this Marty potato spaghetti leg olive foot creature wore a golden silver dollar pancake head. Emblazoned and mugging upon one side of this golden pancake was the animated likeness of Jimi Hendrix!

Akimbo, seeing Jimi Hendrix’ pancake head, clutched his chest. He tried to grab the frisky potato and came away with potato Marty’s Hendrix pancake head! Immediately, Akimbo stuffed Marty’s Hendrix head into his mouth and swallowed. Marty was trapped. His head was gone. He was a potato with hard Durham egg spaghetti legs and green red pimiento stuffed olive feet. Cooked he’d be a tasty. But raw he was nothing. Headlessness made matters worse.


I may have a unique perspective. Maybe not, but it’s an idea. The idea is that we are it. More precisely, I am. But you are too.  All of you. You’re it. When you go it’s gone. It was all in your head. You were right. It ended with you and now you’re on to something else. See how easy it all was?

 

Don’t believe me? Nothing is real. There is no settled science. History is an agreed upon lie. Much is false, sometimes all. True is a relative term. Real truth is always looking to be falsified. Consensus changes, the temporary nature of what is considered true, or known, should not. This sets us up nicely for life in the next world.

“True And You” by Randall Rogers  Copyright © 2019.

Joe Russo

Posted: November 9, 2017 in Fiction, Flash, Stuff, Uncategorized
Tags: ,

Anacondas and Bubble Butts 

     With the right underwear, a guy can conquer the world. Marilyn said something along those lines, I think with shoes, but she’s never seen me in my baby blue boxer briefs. I believe boxers are like shoes, with many different kinds and sizes and finding that right pair makes you unstoppable.

I wore my baby blue boxers today because they hugged my ass and wrapped around the bulge in front. It was like a walking weapon, don’t stand too close. Or do. The briefs matched perfectly with my blue eyes, blonde hair and tanned skin.

The world I came to conquer was the gay bar downtown, called Anaconda’s. A fitting name, being that customers were only allowed to wear underwear. I’ve been there many times and made quite the selection of friends.

s-bc16aae00bcb0c0a123f52a8ea0554a82d796485Standing outside was the bouncer, a big hulk-like man named Biscuit. He saw me and smiled.

            “Johnny, looking damn fine,” he said, opening the door for me.

            “Biscuit, just wait,” I told him as I lowered my pants down to the top of the briefs. I knew blue was his favorite color; he’s told me many time since.

I walked inside and stopped at the coat- well, clothes- checker. I removed my shirt slowly because I knew people were watching inside. I rubbed my hands down my chest and fumbled with my jean button. I took them off, and inside I heard moaning.

            “Is that Johnny Cooper?”

            “That’s Johnny fucking Cooper!”

The clothes checker handed me a slip of paper, 69 written at the top. Clever. On the backside, his phone number.

Anaconda’s was the place made for dreams. At every corner, a bubble butt stood. A muscled top sat at the bar. Underpants every shape, size and color were waiting for a simple touch, pat or slap. The bathroom was a joke reserved for those who couldn’t quite wait to go home.

I took my seat at the end of the bar, near the bathroom. The bartender, noting the quick glances from other customers, placed a drink in front of me.

            “Free of charge, Mr. Cooper.”

            I smiled at him. I really should ask for his name but before I could speak he shouts at a group of guys who, towards the dancefloor already crowded with sweaty half naked men, were in the midst of pissing on some poor twink dressed as a unicorn.   

As I took a sip, glancing around the bar I noticed one guy looking right at me. He stood at a table, not moving, blinking or drinking. He wore a black pair of boxer briefs, tight and form fitting. His cock not yet erect but getting there.

I nodded over to him, shocked he hasn’t moved to the seat next to me. His olive skin tone, shined in the light. His black hair was pushed back and greased.

He moved over to me. I pushed the chair out and he sat down.

“Hi. I’m Johnny.”

            “Yo sé quién eres. That’s all these people talk about,” he said, in a think accent. I couldn’t place where he was from though; the music over-powered his small whispering.

“Where are you from?”

            He didn’t answer me. Either he didn’t want to or he couldn’t hear me. I looked back down to his briefs. He was a bottom; his ass looked too good in those briefs.

            “My name is Oliver.”

            I looked over at him. He looked like an Oliver.

            “I’m new to this scene. I just moved here from Texas.”

            “Texas! I’ve never been, would love to go sometime,” I said, taking another sip from my drink.

            “I’ve never been with a man,” Oliver said.

            My eyes smiled.

            “I could show you some things,” I told him, standing up.

He looked around. I bet he was nervous, I was my first time. I grabbed his hands, leading him away from Anaconda’s. Away from the other bubble butts and power tops. Away from the men, groaning, yelling “Dammit. Maybe next time.”

We walk back to my place our clothes back on. Anaconda was only a short fifteen-minute walk and on the way, I learned as much as I could about Oliver. He moved away from Texas because his parents didn’t accept him and said that marriage was between a man and a woman. Final. He wanted to be a writer, which was also unheard of in his family.

Inside I put on some music. Oliver hasn’t listened to Whitney or Barry.

Instead, I pull him into me, kiss his lips. I run my hands down his back, touch his butt. His shirt is so soft.

He runs a hand through my hair, pulling back so he can kiss my neck. In my bedroom, I push him down onto the bed. He kicks his shoes off. I take my jeans off.

            “What do I do?” he asks, still kissing my lips, neck and chest.

            “Ssh, I got this. You just sit back and relax.”

            I take off my underwear and just before I throw them onto the floor I caress his cheeks with them wiping my scent all over him like a puppy marking his spot. I turn him around, give him a little slap. His ass round and his hole ready. Pulsing. I stick my tongue in it, swirl it around form letters like some perverted spelling test. I spell out cock, suck, fuck, raw and slut. He moans and I tell him to be quiet.

“Turn around. Let me see those pretty green eyes.”

His eyes find mine and I look into them. Long. Hard. I wrap my hands around his face and bring him closer to me. Our lips lock and I can tell he’s shy.

“Open your mouth.”

He opens his eyes. “Sí, señor.”

“Your accent is so fucking hot.”

“I want you to fuck me.”

“Say it in spanish.”

“Quiero que me jodas.”

I tell him I make the rules tonight. “Get on your knees. Face down.” Ready. Set. Go.

As I lay on top of him, each thrust making him squeal in pain or pleasure, I know I’ve conquered Texas and I couldn’t help but wonder where I should go next.