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This month: broken skin, fractured ego and eviscerated dignity. Rate each entry below in three categories: literary merit, heat and originality. Each month's highest-ranked entry will proceed to the year-end competition.
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From Now is the Hour
by Tom Spanbauer
(Houghton Mifflin) |
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OVERALL RATING: 7.154
 
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To buy Now is the Hour, click here
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In the room, all around us, forced cold air.
Billie's hip-huggers were so tight, I had to help her pull them off.
We had to laugh. Really, it was so absurd when I was pulling at the cuffs of her pants and my balls were bouncing in my huge elongated transparent shorts.
When I laughed, my aching head.
Billie reached around behind and unclasped her bra.
My God, the surprising weight of her breasts, their full white flesh. The way they moved, large, glowing fish underwater. The nipples, not pink like mine, but soft brown.
Then my socks were off, then my shorts. Then Billie's pink bikini underpants.
Canal water, moss, mud, horse piss, lemon grass.
Buck-naked.
The dark brown hair in Billie's crotch.
That cock of mine, lying on top of my balls.
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To buy Now is the Hour, click here
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In the room, all around us, forced cold air.
Billie's hip-huggers were so tight, I had to help her pull them off.
We had to laugh. Really, it was so absurd when I was pulling at the cuffs of her pants and my balls were bouncing in my huge elongated transparent shorts.
When I laughed, my aching head.
Billie reached around behind and unclasped her bra.
My God, the surprising weight of her breasts, their full white flesh. The way they moved, large, glowing fish underwater. The nipples, not pink like mine, but soft brown.
Then my socks were off, then my shorts. Then Billie's pink bikini underpants.
Canal water, moss, mud, horse piss, lemon grass.
Buck-naked.
The dark brown hair in Billie's crotch.
That cock of mine, lying on top of my balls.
I was trying to have a very good parade, but it wasn't working.
Billie made a little scream, and between the thin yellow sheets Billie dived in first. Then me. For a moment, we lay there frozen, the both of us, not touching, looking up at the flat white ceiling, one long crack, the covers pulled up around our necks.
I reached over to shut off the light.
Billie said: Leave the light on, Rig.
I turned my head, let my eyes open.
There she was, Billie Cody.
I don't want to lose you in the dark, she said.
Warm and naked in a cold bed, how two bodies fit. All around us, cold, cold and weird, things slipping in and out of the dark. Shivers in my body like I was standing next to death.
Billie's warm, smooth hand along my arm, on my ribs, across my chest.
Two lips against two lips soft with a kind of suck, tobacco, and the taste of pink. There I was with Billie, Billie Cody, my girlfriend, the girl I could kiss and kiss and kiss, and we'd become a dream.
I pulled the covers down. Billie's nipples were goose flesh and sticking up and hard. My hand touched her nipples, and although my hand touched her nipples, I wasn't there in my hand.
Kiss me there, Billie said.
Heartbeat all through my head. Sour smoke in my chest. My heart, sore, deep in mucus. In my mouth, Billie's hard tit lolled around my tongue.
The long arch of my hand that landed on the hair of her crotch. How smooth her hair was down there, smooth and slick.
As soon as my hand landed, Billie jumped a foot off the bed.
My hand was cold. Everything was cold. Fucking freezing.
Billie opened her legs.
My hand slipped down through hair, down and down into endless folds of dark, wet flesh.
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From It's Kind of a Funny Story
by Ned Vizzini
(Miramax) |
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OVERALL RATING: 6.727
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To buy It's Kind of a Funny Story, click here
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But I take two fingers of my right hand and put them through the soft seam in her top. Underneath is a bra, I'm pretty sure — something made of mesh that wraps around her. I twiddle my finger against it, not sure if she can feel it. Can you feel things through a bra?
She makes noises like someone about to sneeze. When I squeeze her breasts, she makes more; when I twiddle the side of her bra, she doesn't make any. So I put my fingers in all the way through her shirt and feel up the dome of the bra — the highest point on her. An inch and a half above sea level.
"Hold on." Noelle lifts her butt off the bed and inserts her hands, flat, palms-down, below herself. Now she's got no hands. She wasn't doing anything with them anyway, but it's weird.
"Keep going," she says.
"Okay." I slide my fingers, still outside her bra, around her nipple. I decide to try something. I get the nipple right between the knuckles on my index and middle finger, and I squeeze.
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To buy It's Kind of a Funny Story, click here
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But I take two fingers of my right hand and put them through the soft seam in her top. Underneath is a bra, I'm pretty sure — something made of mesh that wraps around her. I twiddle my finger against it, not sure if she can feel it. Can you feel things through a bra?
She makes noises like someone about to sneeze. When I squeeze her breasts, she makes more; when I twiddle the side of her bra, she doesn't make any. So I put my fingers in all the way through her shirt and feel up the dome of the bra — the highest point on her. An inch and a half above sea level.
"Hold on." Noelle lifts her butt off the bed and inserts her hands, flat, palms-down, below herself. Now she's got no hands. She wasn't doing anything with them anyway, but it's weird.
"Keep going," she says.
"Okay." I slide my fingers, still outside her bra, around her nipple. I decide to try something. I get the nipple right between the knuckles on my index and middle finger, and I squeeze.
You can't get much of a squeeze on through a bra, but the noises are immediate.
"Unhh."
"Um?" I look up.
"Mmmmmmn."
Oh, this is awesome.
"Shh," I whisper. "Smitty will come."
"How much time do we have?" she asks.
"I don't know. A little while."
"Mmmmmm."
All right, cool, only now there's one more voice that wants me to do one more thing. It's the same voice that got me hooking up with Nia; it's the voice of the lower half of me, but it feels truer now, and it knows it can't get away with everything it wants to do, but it insists that we try something.
We need to test out that claim of Aaron's.
My hand moves down Noelle's body, down the seam of the frilly white shirt to the skirt, which has a slightly different grain to the fabric. I move down to its end, by her knees, shocked that I don't get any resistance or hesitancy or punches in the face. I roll the skirt up — I'm really in danger of putting a hole through the bed at this point — and there I find underwear. Not underwear. Panties. Real panties!
Holy crap, I'm actually going to figure this out!
"Wow!"
Noelle gasps.
"It is like the inside of a cheek!"
"What?"
Noelle pushes me off her. The distended seam of the shirt is repositioned; the panties are jerked back in place; the skirt is down and the girl is up at the head of the bed, staring at me.
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From Sex, Blood and Rock 'N' Roll
by Kimberly Warner-Cohen
(IG) |
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OVERALL RATING: 8.122
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To buy Sex, Blood and Rock 'N' Roll, click here
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Shimmy out of my pants and take his shirt off, open his Jack Daniels belt buckle, tug down his jeans in one shove. Soft, almost invisible down at the bottom of his back, his high, firm ass that I always tell him looks like a girl's. Press, pulling him to me, skin on soft skin. Hairless thighs part mine, and rub against his leg, lips opening so I get all over him. He is looking straight into me as he licks his fingers, traces my nipples in wide circles. Sharp intake of breath. Groaning now, one hand clenched in his curls, another on his back.
When I can't take it anymore, going to come just from his teasing, nipples so hard they're throbbing, guide his hand to my pussy. Finger slides inside, Ohgodohgod, writhing on the one, then two fingers stretching me, teasing my g-spot like he does the guitar. Grunting, groaning, screeching. Fingers faster, throat gives out this primal scream, every muscle in me tenses up in waves of pleasure. Arch my neck and pelvis, take in as much as I can.
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To buy Sex, Blood and Rock 'N' Roll, click here
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Shimmy out of my pants and take his shirt off, open his Jack Daniels belt buckle, tug down his jeans in one shove. Soft, almost invisible down at the bottom of his back, his high, firm ass that I always tell him looks like a girl's. Press, pulling him to me, skin on soft skin. Hairless thighs part mine, and rub against his leg, lips opening so I get all over him. He is looking straight into me as he licks his fingers, traces my nipples in wide circles. Sharp intake of breath. Groaning now, one hand clenched in his curls, another on his back.
When I can't take it anymore, going to come just from his teasing, nipples so hard they're throbbing, guide his hand to my pussy. Finger slides inside, Ohgodohgod, writhing on the one, then two fingers stretching me, teasing my g-spot like he does the guitar. Grunting, groaning, screeching. Fingers faster, throat gives out this primal scream, every muscle in me tenses up in waves of pleasure. Arch my neck and pelvis, take in as much as I can.
When my breath returns, get on my knees, push him back. Cock is hard, almost red, as I crack my jaw open, slide in the thick familiar ridges, veins on the underside. Stop when it hits the back of my throat, tighten my mouth and suck, running my tongue over the head, lapping at his balls.
Pushes me off and races to the bathroom, grabs the foil square, rips it with his teeth as he hurries back. Blows into the tip to make sure it's rolled the right way before smoothing it over his throbbing cock and putting it between open legs and into my wet pussy in one move. Pressed tightly against each other, sucking sound from the sweat in the hollow of our chests pressed against each other, bucking hips, groans merging like our saliva, wanting as much inside me as I can take. Crotch sweat and my juices intermingling, light smack of his balls slapping my ass. Heady wet smell of sex filling the room; dig my nails into his shoulders, pulling him as close as possible.
Come as he's thrusting in and out, biting his shoulder, squealing; white goo soaking his entire cock, pubic hair. Right after, he can't hold back anymore and starts slamming, then screws up his face in this way that I've always thought is funny, and grunts, collapsing on top of me.
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From The Burning
by Thomas Legendre
(Little, Brown) |
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OVERALL RATING: 5.424
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To buy The Burning, click here
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She could do this. She had eaten a live worm when she was ten years old. She went over to the light switch and turned it off. Unbuttoning her blouse, she let her eyes adjust to the brilliant hues coming through the window. The leering carivalesque twilight. Soft shadows. Colors washing across the furniture and walls. He was watching her, the hard lines of his face visible. Fine. No problem. She could handle it, because as she unfastened her bra she realized the city was going about its business, doing its winning and losing, its buying and selling, its drinking and eating, its construction of rainbows and all the jackpots they contained. She climbed into the bed and worked her fingers under the waistband of his briefs. The bedspread scratched against her breasts. It didn't matter. It wasn't really happening to her. She lowered her head and took his cock into her mouth. It was small enough for her to do the full sword-swallowing act, which got the expected reaction. She cupped his testicles. His penis leaked. A sour taste in her mouth. It was some other woman doing this. Dallas wasn't even in the room. She was floating above the city, gazing down at the crawling headlights, the lamped houses, the wheeling aberrations of the Strip.
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To buy The Burning, click here
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She could do this. She had eaten a live worm when she was ten years old. She went over to the light switch and turned it off. Unbuttoning her blouse, she let her eyes adjust to the brilliant hues coming through the window. The leering carnivalesque twilight. Soft shadows. Colors washing across the furniture and walls. He was watching her, the hard lines of his face visible. Fine. No problem. She could handle it, because as she unfastened her bra she realized the city was going about its business, doing its winning and losing, its buying and selling, its drinking and eating, its construction of rainbows and all the jackpots they contained. She climbed into the bed and worked her fingers under the waistband of his briefs. The bedspread scratched against her breasts. It didn't matter. It wasn't really happening to her. She lowered her head and took his cock into her mouth. It was small enough for her to do the full sword-swallowing act, which got the expected reaction. She cupped his testicles. His penis leaked. A sour taste in her mouth. It was some other woman doing this. Dallas wasn't even in the room. She was floating above the city, gazing down at the crawling headlights, the lamped houses, the wheeling aberrations of the Strip. She was passing over mountains shaped like half-folded umbrellas staked into the ground. Why hadn't she ever noticed that before? How had she missed such a thing? There was an Air Force base with its hangars and runways angled toward the great wastes of the Mojave, where mushroom clouds had bloomed so many decades ago. She could see it now — the skies full of aircraft shaped like scimitar blades, technology scavenged from alien wreckage, everyone knew it, and he was moaning hoarsely and coming and she was spitting it onto the bedspread, away from the chips, which she couldn't see but was keeping track of, more or less, with her left elbow.
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From Calling Out
by Rae Meadows
(MacAdam/Cage) |
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OVERALL RATING: 6.067
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To buy Calling Out, click here
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Harold has stripped to his boxers, undershirt, and black socks, and he is on all fours on the floor at the foot of the bed. My first reaction is not that he looks ridiculous — he does — but that he is a sad man. I unload the kitchen utensils onto the bed; its threadbare quilt pulled taut with angular, military-style corners. I opt for the spoon, slapping it against my palm.
"Good boy, for doing as you were told. But that doesn't mean you're off the hook," I say.
Harold has stripped to his boxers, undershirt, and black socks, and he is on all fours on the floor at the foot of the bed. My first reaction is not that he looks ridiculous — he does — but that he is a sad man. I unload the kitchen utensils onto the bed; its threadbare quilt pulled taut with angular, military-style corners. I opt for the spoon, slapping it against my palm.
"Good boy, for doing as you were told. But that doesn't mean you're off the hook," I say.
I nudge down one side of his underwear, exposing the almost translucent flesh of his left buttock cheek. I graze my skin with my fingers before landing a light smack with the wooden spoon. And again, harder, turning his pale skin pink. Another crack of the spoon and a low, animal-like moan escapes from him. The meat tenderizer proves trickier, as it bounces off his butt. I order his shirt off and drag the jagged head of the malet against his back.
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To buy Calling Out, click here
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Harold has stripped to his boxers, undershirt, and black socks, and he is on all fours on the floor at the foot of the bed. My first reaction is not that he looks ridiculous — he does — but that he is a sad man. I unload the kitchen utensils onto the bed; its threadbare quilt pulled taut with angular, military-style corners. I opt for the spoon, slapping it against my palm.
"Good boy, for doing as you were told. But that doesn't mean you're off the hook," I say.
I nudge down one side of his underwear, exposing the almost translucent flesh of his left buttock cheek. I graze my skin with my fingers before landing a light smack with the wooden spoon. And again, harder, turning his pale skin pink. Another crack of the spoon and a low, animal-like moan escapes from him. The meat tenderizer proves trickier, as it bounces off his butt. I order his shirt off and drag the jagged head of the malet against his back.
Harold says, "Oh, oh, oh," with the slow rhythm of a mantra, so I gather I'm doing what he wants. He doesn't open his eyes or move away.
Before the ice melts on the bed, I take the tray and hold it to the soles of his feet, for lack of any better idea, and he starts and whimpers but I hold the ice steady, amazed that he is paying me for this.
"I know I deserve it," he says. "Make me pay. Make me suffer."
I pull his boxers down to his knees and slap him as hard as I can muster, leaving my palm stinging. I slap him again and again. His skin quivers with the blows. With each hit I feel more in control and invigorated. Adrenaline surges through my veins. It is as if a part of me has come out of hiberation, and I welcome it.
"I want to see you, crawl, Harold. Like the big baby you are," I say. "Crawl!"
He obeys, crawling on his hands and knees in a circle, looking over his shoulder at me with that big, square face of his, with the fear and bafflement of a toddler, and I wonder if I'm damaging this man forever. He scoots around the perimeter of the room and I use the spoon like a riding crop each time he passes by. His knees are rug-burned. His forehead is damp.
"Stop," I shout. "Now go to the corner and don't move until I say so."
Harold wedges himself against the corner walls, his boxers tangled up around his knees. Red striations run down the length of his back. I kneel behind him and rake my fingernails across his shoulders.
"Don't you dare turn around," I whisper. "I mean it"
"I promise," he says. His breathing is quick and rasping. Just as I claw my nails into his skin, Harold ejaculates onto the wall.
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