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This month: lawn care, tulip eaters and one hot tomato. 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 Thong Nation
by Henry Sutton
(Serpent's Tail) |
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OVERALL RATING: 7.567
 
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To buy Thong Nation click here
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The end of the hose, the bright-yellow Hozelock bit which has to attach to the tap, Sally decides, has a surprisingly phallic shape.
Before she stands, almost without thinking, she brushes the dusty thing between her legs. Now standing, she has a closer look at it, finding the end no longer dusty but glistening, as if some old water had become dislodged and dripped out. She feels between her legs, wondering whether the thing might have somehow leaked on to her there, upside down.
Just for the hell of it she presses her index finger inside herself again. Though this time she is wet, at least moist, and she realizes she must have leaked onto the Hozelock and not the other way around.
It's still not past nine in the morning, though the weather says it should be much nearer noon, and, hot and sweaty and oddly damp between her legs, Sally uncoils the hose, carrying the attachment over to the side return where the outside tap is, not being able to resist brushing it between her legs again before having to shove it on to the tap. Though this time she doesn't just brush it between her legs but pushes the tip into her vagina, not caring how dirty the end might be, not caring that the end might have spent the winter gathering dirt and dust in the shed all on its own. A sad, dried-up garden hose thingy.
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To buy Thong Nation click here
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The end of the hose, the bright-yellow Hozelock bit which has to attach to the tap, Sally decides, has a surprisingly phallic shape.
Before she stands, almost without thinking, she brushes the dusty thing between her legs. Now standing, she has a closer look at it, finding the end no longer dusty but glistening, as if some old water had become dislodged and dripped out. She feels between her legs, wondering whether the thing might have somehow leaked on to her there, upside down.
Just for the hell of it she presses her index finger inside herself again. Though this time she is wet, at least moist, and she realizes she must have leaked onto the Hozelock and not the other way around.
It's still not past nine in the morning, though the weather says it should be much nearer noon, and, hot and sweaty and oddly damp between her legs, Sally uncoils the hose, carrying the attachment over to the side return where the outside tap is, not being able to resist brushing it between her legs again before having to shove it on to the tap. Though this time she doesn't just brush it between her legs but pushes the tip into her vagina, not caring how dirty the end might be, not caring that the end might have spent the winter gathering dirt and dust in the shed all on its own. A sad, dried-up garden hose thingy.
She suddenly feels very attached to the attachment, working it further inside her, and angling it so the base rubs against her almost-forgotten-about clitoris — standing, legs apart, one hand on the wall, in the side return, definitely out of view from anyone.
However, it's even hotter here, a suntrap this time of the day already, and having felt so dry earlier Sally now feels dripping, all over, and knowing she's not going to have an orgasm — she has to lie down to come, she has to concentrate for hours to come, she couldn't possibly come with the aid of the garden hose, outside — she lets the attachment slide out of her and quickly plugs it on to the tap, as if she hadn't just been doing what she'd been doing with it. She turns the tap on full and, hearing a creaking, groaning sound, sees the sprinkler in the center of the lawn leap into action, the arc of water beginning to wave in the still, suburban air.
Terribly ashamed of what she had just been doing, ashamed of having been turned on by the Hozelock, wanting to cleanse herself, wanting to cool down more than anything, unadventurous, redundant Sally leaps onto the lawn, and stepping over the sprinkler walks through the arcing spray. It feels so good, she steps back and forth, and back and forth, but each time she crosses through the water, each time the water spurts up on to her, she lingers a little longer and positions herself a little more carefully, so the spray hits her bang between the legs, so the spray hits her hard and soft at the same time right where it counts.
Sally has to lie down to come, Sally has to concentrate for ages and ages to come — normally. But right now, her shortie nightie soaked through, so she may as well not be wearing anything, in the middle of the garden, barely gone nine in the morning, but what a morning, what a scorcher already, Sally comes, sort of standing up, in record time — her spasms in time with the pulsating, groaning, working-overtime, happy-to-be-outside, happy-to-be-being-used, at last, Hozelock garden sprinkler.
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From The Scent of Your Breath
by Melissa P.
(Black Cat) |
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OVERALL RATING: 3.167
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To buy The Scent of Your Breath, click here
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I'm naked at the computer; he's in the kitchen washing the dishes and whistling. I like noise when I'm writing — I like a racket. He puts on a CD and I, still writing, find myself moving my hips and making my revolving chair move back and forth. The curtains aren't closed yet and the windows are high, typical of a seventeenth-century palazzo. Everybody can see us, and we're happy for anyone to watch us making love. Perhaps that's typical of people in love: showing everyone you love each other. I wander along the corridor, brushing the walls with my finger. I enter the sitting room and stroke the bonsai tree, standing on tiptoes. He has his back to me, and I wrap my arms around his chest and start rubbing my pelvis against him. I turn him resolutely around, look at him coyly, aware that I've made a movement he likes. I turn around, rub my ass against him, and he delicately strokes my back; I sit down on the edge of the cold, wet sink, the contact makes my whole skin shiver, and my body swells upward.
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To buy The Scent of Your Breath, click here
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I'm naked at the computer; he's in the kitchen washing the dishes and whistling. I like noise when I'm writing — I like a racket. He puts on a CD and I, still writing, find myself moving my hips and making my revolving chair move back and forth. The curtains aren't closed yet and the windows are high, typical of a seventeenth-century palazzo. Everybody can see us, and we're happy for anyone to watch us making love. Perhaps that's typical of people in love: showing everyone you love each other. I wander along the corridor, brushing the walls with my finger. I enter the sitting room and stroke the bonsai tree, standing on tiptoes. He has his back to me, and I wrap my arms around his chest and start rubbing my pelvis against him. I turn him resolutely around, look at him coyly, aware that I've made a movement he likes. I turn around, rub my ass against him, and he delicately strokes my back; I sit down on the edge of the cold, wet sink, the contact makes my whole skin shiver, and my body swells upward.
He takes me there and then, grandiosely stretches his body out on top of mine, and whispers words I like into my ear, warming my earlobe with his breath.
Then I hear a coughing fit and open my eyes: I see a woman leaning over the table, coughing convulsively; she looks up and smiles wickedly at me. She's blond, wearing a flower-patterned dress, and she's thin and coarse. I look at her for a moment longer, then I look at him, close my eyes, open them again, look back at the woman and see that she's disappeared. I can still hear her coughing. I draw him toward me and devour him.
His tongue bleeds, dripping red on my neck.
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From Small Acts of Sex and Electricity
by Lise Haines
(Unbridled) |
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OVERALL RATING: 3.917
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To buy Small Acts of Sex and Electricity,
click here
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— I should go downstairs, I said.
— I know, he said, but he put a hand on my leg.
— There are people who eat tulips to calm down, I said.
— Tulip eaters, he said, and slid his hand between my thighs.
I thought about bringing up the friend who slept with her second husband the night of her first husband's funeral, but I guessed that was a random thing, and let it go.
— We're both a little bereft right now, I said.
— This isn't about that.
— No?
— No.
Mike slowly pulled my nightgown up.
— I know how to draw kitchen triangles, I offered.
— That's why I've always loved you, Mattie.
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To buy Small Acts of Sex and Electricity,
click here
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— I should go downstairs, I said.
— I know, he said, but he put a hand on my leg.
— There are people who eat tulips to calm down, I said.
— Tulip eaters, he said, and slid his hand between my thighs.
I thought about bringing up the friend who slept with her second husband the night of her first husband's funeral, but I guessed that was a random thing, and let it go.
— We're both a little bereft right now, I said.
— This isn't about that.
— No?
— No.
Mike slowly pulled my nightgown up.
— I know how to draw kitchen triangles, I offered.
— That's why I've always loved you, Mattie.
— I have stats on gun-related deaths. Skee-ball accidents. Nothing on car flights. Less on why we drive toward collision.
I wanted to take my rental car and find Jane out in the state of California and bring her home, keep myself from going anywhere else. I wanted to climb onto his lap and stay on at freeway speeds.
He wetted my right nipple with his tongue. I looked at the small indentations on either side of his nose, from his glasses, as I tried to breathe. I pressed a baby finger into one of them. It fit perfectly, like a tiny shoe.
— Tell me one of your stories, he said.
That was what we did. We told each other stories.
— Okay. There was a woman who fucked the David once. That guy I knew in college, you remember Stuart, he told me that.
The light pressure of Mike's teeth, the way his tongue flicked. I thought of a ruby-throated hummingbird. But I proceeded with my story.
— I'm . . . not sure if he meant the false David near the Uffizi or the real David in Galleria dell'Accademia. But I hadn't been to Italy . . . then, and I think I was a little naïve about security. But I like picturing that . . . otherworldly event: the woman seeming to . . . float upward, maybe she had help . . . from friends. In either case, she must have ascended when the guards were changing shifts. I feel certain she held on to him . . . like a moth to a wool blanket . . . until the first shout and the hands . . . that plucked her off.
Mike slid his hand into the bottoms of my shortie pajamas. I closed my eyes and began to float. Just before my head hit the ceiling, I heard the door handle twist back and forth.
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From The Summer of My Amazing Luck
by Miriam Toews
(Counterpoint) |
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OVERALL RATING: 4.250
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To buy The Summer of My Amazing Luck, click here
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Hart rubbed his black sock against my bare foot and then ran his big toe up my shin to about my knee. Unfortunately he spoke. "You hot little tomato you." I smiled sweetly again. I closed my eyes and thought about my non-existent nineteen-year-old boyfriend with the muscular arms and the jeans and the picture in his wallet poking out of a hole in the back pocket of his jeans. Hart started rubbing my belly like I was a kid with a stomachache (which come to think of it I was, getting there, anyway), and then moved his hand down to my pubic hair, hesitated for one brief dramatic moment and plunged one of his skinny white fingers into my vagina. Sigh. That area taken care of for the time being, he proceeded to move up to my breasts. Like switching on a car. Ignition, wipers, radio, okay we're ready to go!
I could see him with a long pointer pointing to a pie on the blackboard. Attend to bottom half of woman, then, moving the marker, from there proceed to top half, maintaining pressure on bottom, until all lights on dash are on. Contact! Proceed to drive. He started to kiss his way up from my bellybutton to my right breast, stopping briefly to lick the hard flat area in between my breasts.
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To buy The Summer of My Amazing Luck, click here
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Hart rubbed his black sock against my bare foot and then ran his big toe up my shin to about my knee. Unfortunately he spoke. "You hot little tomato you." I smiled sweetly again. I closed my eyes and thought about my non-existent nineteen-year-old boyfriend with the muscular arms and the jeans and the picture in his wallet poking out of a hole in the back pocket of his jeans. Hart started rubbing my belly like I was a kid with a stomachache (which come to think of it I was, getting there, anyway), and then moved his hand down to my pubic hair, hesitated for one brief dramatic moment and plunged one of his skinny white fingers into my vagina. Sigh. That area taken care of for the time being, he proceeded to move up to my breasts. Like switching on a car. Ignition, wipers, radio, okay we're ready to go!
I could see him with a long pointer pointing to a pie on the blackboard. Attend to bottom half of woman, then, moving the marker, from there proceed to top half, maintaining pressure on bottom, until all lights on dash are on. Contact! Proceed to drive. He started to kiss his way up from my bellybutton to my right breast, stopping briefly to lick the hard flat area in between my breasts. I wondered if Dill had had trouble going to sleep over at Teresa's. Hart pulled my hand and steered it in the general direction of his dick and them demonstrated how he wanted me to move my hand. Standard. See chart. Back to the breast. His tongue wrapped itself around my nipple and one of his hands moved up to squeeze the wide base of my breast.
"HOLY SHIT!!!!! WHAT THE HEEEELLL!!!" Suddenly Hart was hollering.
By the dim light of the street lamp shining into my bedroom window I saw Hart's face, lifted up off my breast, white, dripping, covered in milk. Dill's milk. He looked like a kitten stopping for a breath while drinking from a big bowl of cream. Warm milk dribbled out of the corner of his mouth. A little geyser shot out from my nipple for a few seconds and then petered out to a few drops. They sat, poised, shimmering and white, pure, on the very tip of my pink nipple, with no place to go. Hart's hot tomato had sprung a leak.
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From The Most Beautiful Girl in the World
by Judy Doenges
(Univ. of Michigan) |
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OVERALL RATING: 6.200
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To buy The Most Beautiful Girl in the World, click here
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"Okay," Marqueese whispered. He grabbed his penis and aimed it at Robin's crotch. Hendrix stopped singing, the arm of the player lifted, and the record started again. Robin put her hands on top of Marqueese's head, over his thin, dark hair, and he slid his dick inside her. There was a slight hesitation, some pressure, and then he seemed to be working around in the middle of her stomach, like a finger in a baseball glove. Once, smiling, her grandmother had whispered to her: all the boys want just one thing.
Marqueese picked up speed. Wopp, wopp, went Hendrix's guitar. One afternoon, years ago, Robin and Kitty had hidden in the sumac that ringed the edge of the Simonsens' property and touched each other. Now, Robin couldn't remember Kitty's fingers on her, or her voice. What she did recollect was that it had been fall and the sumac had turned red, and she and Kitty had been together under a line of flames. "Uh," Marqueese said. Then: "Uh. Uh. Uh." On the eastern edge of the Simonsen property, behind the bus, ran a trickle of water that sometimes became a creek of melted snow or storm water. When the creek was high, Robin and Kitty would wade side by side looking for leeches and for the sick goldfish dumped upstream, which sailed down the current on beds of leaves and twigs and candy wrappers.
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To buy The Most Beautiful Girl in the World, click here
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"Okay," Marqueese whispered. He grabbed his penis and aimed it at Robin's crotch. Hendrix stopped singing, the arm of the player lifted, and the record started again. Robin put her hands on top of Marqueese's head, over his thin, dark hair, and he slid his dick inside her. There was a slight hesitation, some pressure, and then he seemed to be working around in the middle of her stomach, like a finger in a baseball glove. Once, smiling, her grandmother had whispered to her: all the boys want just one thing.
Marqueese picked up speed. Wopp, wopp, went Hendrix's guitar. One afternoon, years ago, Robin and Kitty had hidden in the sumac that ringed the edge of the Simonsens' property and touched each other. Now, Robin couldn't remember Kitty's fingers on her, or her voice. What she did recollect was that it had been fall and the sumac had turned red, and she and Kitty had been together under a line of flames. "Uh," Marqueese said. Then: "Uh. Uh. Uh." On the eastern edge of the Simonsen property, behind the bus, ran a trickle of water that sometimes became a creek of melted snow or storm water. When the creek was high, Robin and Kitty would wade side by side looking for leeches and for the sick goldfish dumped upstream, which sailed down the current on beds of leaves and twigs and candy wrappers.
She had forgotten Marqueese again, and here he was on her breasts. First one nipple, then the other. Lynn's breasts were lightly freckled, with tiny pink nipples. Robin saw her own mouth, her small teeth parted, come down on Lynn's breast. She put her hands on the sides of Marqueese's head. He pushed harder inside of her. What did girls do? Freddie had once asked Robin. The two of them had found Kinsey in the library: girls sucked, girls kissed and knelt before each other and buried their heads in the dark and wet and the scent. Kinsey had asked women about kinds of acts, frequency, duration. Each woman was a model for those who read about them. Robin pushed up with her hips. Marqueese rose up on his hands and drove into her, his eyes closed, his bony chest in front of Robin's face. He chuffed like a steam engine. Lynn's pubic hair was light brown and curly. Robin could drag her palm down the crack of Lynn's ass — she could see herself do it, right now — and then under and to the front, right up to that patch of hair. Robin could grab it without causing pain. If you pulled up in the right spot. If you put the heel of your hand down on the point were everything grew moist and and warm, the fevered place, and then you pulled up.
Marqueese smiled, opened his eyes, put his arms under Robin's back, and turned them both. She sat astride, impressed. Marqueese's bony legs were covered in dark hair. He pushed himself up until he was sitting against Stansell's headboard, then he gripped Robin's hips and bounced her. She swallowed her laughter, tried not to smile. Tribadism, that was it: in Kinsey that was what most women did. Rubbing, the dictionary had said. Mutual stimulation. The rituals of a secret tribe. To cover Lynn with her own body, as some kind of protection, to be the one to make the girl's eyelids flutter and open to blue, to make the girl smile up into her own face. Robin fell forward onto Marqueese, her head on his neck, her mouth by his ear. Lynn's hair, a shower in her hands.
"Ah," Marqueese said. And then: "Ah shit ah shit ah shit." Marqueese grabbed Robin's hips and bounced her up high and then brought her down hard on his pubic bone. "Ah," he said. His tongue probed her mouth while he held her face, then he pulled back and looked at her.
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