1 Flash – Randall Rogers
Posted: January 30, 2020 in Fiction, Flash, Musing, UncategorizedTags: BoySlut Magazine
1 Poem – Linda M. Crate
Posted: January 29, 2020 in Poetry, Prose, UncategorizedTags: BoySlut Magazine
because queens
i blamed myself
for your indiscretions for the longest time,
but i came to realize i was not
responsible
for your betrayal;
you were a devil pretending to be a saint—
just another snake
trying to steal away another eden,
but i am the queen here;
so i exiled you from the garden
and i am not sorry—
my entire life i have heard of adam and eve,
how it’s not adam and steve but perhaps
there’s something beyond your comprehension;
maybe it was lilith & eve because queens
tend to be stronger without kings
demanding their heads.
1 Poem – Devlin De La Chapa
Posted: January 20, 2020 in Musing, Poetry, Prose, UncategorizedTags: BoySlut Magazine
a momentary re`lapse of poetic insanity
I don’t ask for much
just a casual walk on these padded streets
in search of that
Great American Poem
at the bottom of a gutter
saturated with trash
that at one time used to be
someone else’s treasure
til they got evicted from their lives
you want to hold hands, you say
you said your palms
feel empty of weight and sweat
with those lifelines
posing like ulterior roads, and your soul
gridlocked on its highway –
I tell her to stop hitchhiking
I think my brain
is suffering from a 3rd degree burn
the lake looks unsavory
pleasant though as I contemplate suicide
with a drowning duck
but I’m too busy reading She Poems
wondering if I would find true love
at the end of a burning kitchen?
she wants to go home, and I don’t
care to walk her back – she gets up
from the bench and flips me the birdie
and I spit sunflower seeds at her hair
wondering if the sun will ever forgive me
for growing a garden on her head?
I feel an anxiety attack building
at the intersection of my conscience and poetry
because the pigeons have come by
for their tweakly visit
and just for a moment I actually contemplate on
tossing ’em crumbs of crystal rock
instead of my week old bread
because I, too, tend to forget that I’m starving
I mean, flying around the city
and splatting pigeon shit all over the place
isn’t exactly
creating masterpieces of art
worthy of someone’s hard earned bread
you still have to clean that crap up, and
I don’t see pigeons tossing me a crumb
for the effort
I starve the pigeons, take my bread home
and make me a bologna sandwich
1 Flash – Randall Rogers
Posted: January 17, 2020 in Fiction, Flash, UncategorizedTags: BoySlut Magazine
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.
1 Poem – Devlin De La Chapa
Posted: January 16, 2020 in Musing, Poetry, UncategorizedTags: BoySlut Magazine
I don`t
want to hear
excuses
about why
you forgot
my roses, how you
missed
that last exit
to placebo`ville
or how your hand
accidentally rode up
your therapists skirt
I just
want to
mesh my mouth
against yours, and hit
rock bottom
with your teeth
John D. Robinson
Posted: November 13, 2017 in Poetry, Stuff, UncategorizedTags: BoySlut Magazine, John D. Robinson
MAKING THINGS HAPPEN
‘I stabbed someone in the face
when I was 15 over a bad drug
deal: a few years in youth
custody then into the big-boys
prison and I don’t won’t to
go back to that hell, no sir,
I’m trying to make things
happen in a good way for me’
he said never making eye-
contact: he shifted nervously
on his feet and looked in
every direction:
‘Listen, I’ve got to go and
meet someone but it was
good to see you’ he said
and moved off into the
bust streets: I watched him
weave through the people,
hoping the man would be
there but he’d have a back-
up plan to score, he was an
old-hand and had his 19th
birthday last week.
I gave up on women

Joe Russo
Posted: November 9, 2017 in Fiction, Flash, Stuff, UncategorizedTags: BoySlut Magazine, Poet Joe Russo
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.
Standing 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.
Martin Appleby
Posted: October 26, 2017 in Musing, Poetry, UncategorizedTags: Martin Appleby. Paper and Ink Literary Zine
WILD MAN
I had worked there
a couple of months
when I was invited to a gig –
Peter & the Test Tube Babies
were playing in a local pub
and everyone was going.
I went along and had one
pint too many
let my hair down and
got a bit too lairy.
The shy and quiet persona
I had assumed in the office
was gone
and the mad punk drunkard
was loose.
I don’t recall the incident
but the story goes
that as we danced to the band
I punched a colleague
square in the tit
and was last seen
in the early hours
howling at the moon
like a wild man.
I missed work the next day
with a brutal hangover
and never lived the night down
for as long as I worked there.
She got her revenge weeks later
when she threw a pen
directly at my face
as I talked on the phone
to a customer –
I let out a yelping “Fuck!”
lost the sale
and had to terminate the call.
Will be accepting submissions soon!