From a Novel, The Keating Script
by Tom Sheehan
another eye were put on them, if another view were to be seen
of them, if somebody were to peer in the window, new judgments
would be made of the trio. May Keating absolutely bloomed in the
midst of them, a literary menage a trois. Her eyes lit up by an
inner flame, long, too long, subdued. Expressions leaping to her
face, crowding it into old issues, freeing from a secret vault
the unused traces of her innermost feelings, highlighting her
golden cheeks, the mouth whose parts were the elegance of lips
almost dripping with themselves. The very set of her jaw became
for the moment softer in its iron than it had been since the very
crucible which had set it."
Trench Always Gets Her Man
low to the ground, she crept through the high grass. The blades
whipped at her face as she made her way swiftly toward the field.
She was certain that the noise had come from this area but it
was empty, save a few horses chewing in the distance. Cassidy
crouched with one knee in the soft dirt, waiting. Then something
caught her eye in the trees that created a perforated line at
the far edge of her property. She sped through the grass once
again to get a closer look. What she saw was unmistakably a pair
of legs which slid out the lonely scrabbly little apple tree.
The sight stopped her short. Horses she’d shoot a man for,
"All these guys I meet are the same. They’re passionless,
tepid. I’ve grown to hate the word "tepid." When
I answer an ad, I always use this word: 'I’m sick of tepid
guys. I want to be seduced. I want to be taken care of.'"
Church of Aphrodite’s Children
by William H. Libaw
their dressing cubicle at the church, C. C. Robeesy’s wife
was reluctant to take off her clothes. Having already put his
own garments in the locker, he said, 'Ann, you’ve been there,
done that. You shed your body shyness years ago. Remember those
sniff-me taste-me sessions? When you took us to The Center for
Higher Awareness of The Lower Functions?'"
by Tom Sheehan
Tuong was twice as old as me. I was a fourteen-year old freshman
in high school and she had been catching my eye for almost a year.
I didn’t really know why that was happening, though the
exploration was enjoyable, at times exciting, blood flow at early
expression. When she walked, which was just about every place
she went in town, her hips made me think about boats hitched to
a slack rope at the tide change, where the river and the ocean
met three miles downstream."
for Whom I Have Scoured the Universe
we are here patrolling our lives, moving about, now and then we
meet, not with great frequency I must admit, most memorable people.
They, in turn, haunt us one way or another until our last vision
fades away, be it a turn of their face, a hand’s movement
in sweet gesture, a universal shoulder announcement as they change
direction, or attitude, or deference. Perhaps their impacts are
from what they don’t do as well as from what they do."
the Quaaludes and Canadian Club, I found myself crawling out of
shoes like a millipede, waiting for the black woman in the curtain
less window across the alley to begin. A giant scarab becoming
a woman behind steamed glass, flesh so dark and real I could almost
catch her fragrance."
was born in New England and it’s a cold place. Raised in
the four iron walls of the long winter. Left to brood in the dark.
Growing up there made me strange though I never understood how
strange until I’d shaken the winter salt from my boots.
I drove south and watched the summers lengthen and felt the heat
make its home in my skin. The forgotten dream spurred me onward
and some days I thanked it and others I cursed it but I was happy
to have the ice melted out of my toes."
from the novel, Self-Murder
Robert Scott Leyse
I speaking aloud when I heard my voice intone, “I want to
drink your death!”? In other words, did I whisper it into
the ear of she with whom I was spending the night or silently
recite it to myself? I wouldn’t bother to ask had I not
suddenly become aware that her hands were pressing against—slapping
at—my chest in a manner which seemed more strident than
playful; aware it was almost as if she was insisting I raise myself
off of her, bring the proceedings to a halt."
Dead End Job
by Laurence Klavan
"They had started doing it at work because they had been
so fucking bored. Not that Isabel had expected to be thrilled,
exactly, collecting data in a company that made security systems—let
her get this straight—so that “passive requestors”
could strengthen the “trust realms” between “insecure”
computers, so that web browsers could better “make requests”
of—oh, the whole thing had been so lame to begin with, and
so would anybody working in it..."
"She thinks about when she applied – just an ad in
the paper for a customer service representative for a fruit basket
company. She did not expect their boss Lisa to have a secondary
job running a brothel. She watches Nathaniel blink several times
at the ceiling and starts to massage his neck."
After Henry: De-Demonising Miller
"Henry Miller has been ill-served by both defenders and detractors.
Muddle begins at the simple bibliographical level. Kingsley Widmer
calls his first biography (by Jay Martin, 1978) "co-operative";
Ronald Gottesman dubs it "unauthorised"; Mary Dearborn
and Karl Orend (TLS, June 20, 2003) assert Miller tried to quash
it." The first nonfiction essay published by Sliptongue,
by distinguished scholar Barry Baldwin.
Sex Doctor Chronicles: Pavlov’s Pussy
I am a sex doctor, so I don’t deal with animals. The only
exception was a mule that I met in Amsterdam, but that’s
a surprisingly boring story. Instead I work with gorgeous little
nymphomaniacs from around the world, and I am telling you that
I can provoke their vaginal secretions simply by ringing a bell.
This may sound insane, but I have proven it during one five-day-long
experiment. I took on the project after making a bet with Mr.
Garza, a personal friend and a famous entrepreneur in the sex
"Dad wished the doc had just shot him right then. To live
under a death sentence, to feel time running out with nothing
to do about it, seemed to make life not worth living. He got so
depressed he couldn't take care of himself. Everything seemed
too much trouble."
"When I drew near my truck, a pink light came on above me,
and it shot through my fuzzy mind that this—the sudden wash
of pinkness—might be another effect of the methylene chloride.
But then I looked up and saw a large lilac bush, heavy with thick
white flowers, and behind it a wooden apartment house, and above
the white-tipped lilac, two stories up, a casement window glowing
softly with a warm pink light. In a moment, the girl stepped to
"They were the epitome of sophistication and urbane modern
living. The men had long been vasectomized, completely relieving
their marriages of pregnancy scares and latex fluid barriers.
The couples were close and getting closer. The Montridge Eight
gatherings elicited flirtatious behavior that grew stronger over
the years. It began with one foot finding another under the table,
or venturing further, toes slowly massaging a crotch. Hands would
sneak inside waistbands from behind."
"Furthermore, as in similar acts of an athletic nature, the
art of Tongue Fu requires the development of the supportin’
muscles as well. Even the strongest tongue can fatigue early if
you neglect the deltoids and the traps and the sternocleidomastoids,
which could lead to your lettin’ up on the reins just as
your filly is nearin’ the finish line. Which is just plain
by Kevin Brown
"Behind him, on the big screen TV, this Asian chick’s
taking it in the out way. Her palms pressing her tits together,
her hair cinched in roped pigtails. Mouth O’d the way Kalli’s
is now. Mike stands and says, 'Babe, this is not what it looks.'
Noticing the shadow of his prick on the wall, he holds a hand
out mime-style and says, 'At least I’m not cheating,' and
she says, 'Yeah, at least there’s that.'"
and the Library
by Kris Saknussemm
"Perched on the tall ladder, your skirt falls in such a way,
that by standing behind the ladder I can not only glimpse, but
luxuriantly examine, the curve of your ass. If I move forward,
slipping between the ladder and the shelf, I can look up and see
your pussy just above me…and more than that. Stopped still
in mid air above me, I am close enough to catch your scent…"
for Laughs: Angie & Ella's Summer of Delirium, Chapter One
by Robert Scott Leyse
Park (Closest approximation of natural wilds any town could hope
to have!) always tosses me off-balance in a good way, teeters
me towards being rasher than my already rash self; yesterday,
the effect was heightened. I was vividly—almost unbearably—aware
of every flying, scampering, noisy sustenance-craving creature;
my blood was ahum with the struggle each living thing shares—the
never quiet urge to prolong its stay on earth and propagate itself!"
Sliptongue is serializing the first three chapters of Robert
Scott Leyse's novel.
the Summer Moonlight
"I had come dressed appropriately to garner attention from
both the management and band members, should I be able to meet
them. Doors do seem to open for a pretty girl in the male world
of metal music. I wore short-shorts, four-inch ankle tie sandals
and a top cut low enough that some white skin on the tops of my
breasts became sunburned from first ever exposure. Most of the
fans were teenage males who secretly cast glances my way, but
were never bold enough to approach. Thank goodness it was clear
I was not there for them."
Tango in Manhattan
"So both of us are causalities of the love wars. We get along
pretty well as roommates. Instead of paying rent, he does the
cooking and cleaning. Some of my friends joke about me having
a live-in male maid, but I don't see it that way. It's just division
of labor. At first I had to put some pressure on him to get him
to raise his housekeeping standards above bachelor slob level,
and his culinary skills are still in the learn-by-doing stage,
but we've got a functioning living unit going here."
"Sometimes in my office as we edited one of her Godawful
poems our knuckles brushed. Mostly we kept a safe distance. I’d
lean back in my chair unbuttoning her blouse with my eyes, imagining
planting a kiss near her neckline, my hands cupping and massaging
her breasts, suckling her nipples. She would ask me what I was
thinking and I answered with cryptic poetic remarks. “I’m
thinking of rain and the color pink.” She would hug her
bag so hard that her blouse’s neckline would reveal her
"He knew about Leif from the beginning. She was always honest
about it. It was hard to break with him, she had confessed, and,
yes, they could be married, but this old lover was somebody that
she just couldn’t let go of right away. There might even
be nights she’d come home late because of some mutual felt
need for intimacy. And he agreed to it, first because he wanted
her so much, and, second, because he had faith it was, finally,
toward him that she was most deeply headed with all her heart
This is Goodbye
by Gwen Wilson
"She was a small handful of a woman, just under five feet
with curves that couldn’t hide under her clothes and an
uncertain smile. Her green tank top hung carelessly low, her brown
pants were rolled up loosely above her calves and the leather
straps of her sandals crisscrossed her ankles. And, somehow, despite
the fact that the humidity treated everyone else like a washcloth,
wringing sweat from their bodies, she never even seemed hot."
"He turned out the light and got in, his breath now quicker
and deep in his throat. I could hear how much he wanted me. He
moved right towards me and clasped me in his arms, drew me into
him. I dived into the hollow of his shoulder as if trying to hide.
I couldn't, though. Dad's hands were on me, first my back, then
my breasts. He kissed my lips in a way he never had before, with
a deep exploring urgency. As he pressed against me, I could feel
how much he wanted me."
Colonoscoper and the Snake Charmeuse
"V. gently bends me forward so that my head rests on my knees.
He inserts a finger into my pussy, exploring its eager status,
teasing me with a second finger, and, for an instant a third,
moving the troika as a unit leisurely in and out. He brings his
hand to his face, favorably evaluating my private scent and flavor,
then reaches towards me, offering his fingers which I smell and
taste with glee, adding the moisture from my mouth as I suck and
lick them clean."
by Harry Johnson
"The woman's face was visible now. Her eyes were shut tight,
clenched. Her lips were pursed in anguish. She had a pretty face.
Her features were strong: arrogant chin, high cheekbones, and
a proud forehead. Her neck was long and feminine and yet sinewy
and muscular. Her ears were pierced, but there was no sign of
earrings. Her torso was smeared with their blood. The bullets
that had killed the man had penetrated her rib cage just beneath
her right breast. Nick’s mind whirred like a high-powered
computer, calculating how he fit into this scene."
Season in Florida
by Emanuele Pettener
"I lost myself in her eyes, and she in mine. I’ve always
had a way with women, and she got all excited when I asked about
her book – she unexpectedly got up to get it, and I saw
her rise with all the grace of a twenty-year old girl, and I became
earth and stone, I was filled with love for mankind, I felt fire
rise within me, oh unforgettable moment of bliss! Up she rose
and her ass was regal, languid, an ass begging to be bitten, an
ass on which to succumb to slumber. She had the ass of a queen
Alice Glass Darkly
Glass was demure, diminutive, nearly exquisite. Her eyes really
were green. She had lovely thin lips. Naked, when she’d
admire her puckered blood-red nipples in the mirror, she imagined
the joy of men seeing them for the first time. How sweet to the
suck they must be! Alice walked on girlish little chicken legs.
Her back tapered smoothly to her bum. Sometimes, she cropped her
dark blond hair. Other times, she put it up in a bun like a schoolmarm’s.
She knew how men exalt to make a schoolmarm moan. Howling was
the gift she gave the men she wanted happy."
spongy tape and the soft rope are tools of his benevolent cruelty.
The devices and his use of them in specific times serve to keep
me sufficiently restrained without endangering me excessively.
I am fully confined, even with some discomfort smoldering in my
limbs, but the danger is minimal, and the pain insignificant so
he can rest without having to monitor my breathing and safety
"I had a hard-on almost the whole time I was massaging her.
Afterwards, I had lover's nuts -- my balls would ache and there'd
be a cramp at the base of my cock, the whole thing sore from being
hard for so long. I'd jerk off thinking about mom, what her hidden
parts looked like, what it would be like to be in her. I'd had
lots of girls, was what the counselors and magazines call a "sexually
active teen," but I wanted mom more than any of them."
Your Match on Craigslist--by a Victorious Veteran
Prof. Barbara Foster
"Eager beavers from twenty to seventy responded to the ad
I posted for an “attractive, mature, sophisticated man unafraid
to show his feelings in a long term relationship with potential
for growth on both sides.” Since the majority of my in the
flesh meetings with wannabe lovers had headed south, imagine my
delight when age appropriate Desmond materialized."
"She loved the “W” as no one should rightfully
love a subway line. She loved it for its obscurity and for the
sound of its name. Most of all, she loved it for its possibilities.
The “W” was long-haul – like a Mack or a Maersk,
cross-country or trans-oceanic. The long-hauls had the time and
patience to get into a rhythm – to settle down onto the
tracks or into the waves and go the distance. With time, patience
and distance, there was always the possibility of romance, and
she lived daily in that hope."
"Was he kidding, this kid? He didn’t seem to be—and
he wasn’t flirting, either, not in the usual way, which
is what Allie had figured at first. A weak wind made her belly
feel cool and she remembered that her shirt was sweated through,
he could clearly see the flower pattern on her bra; but the boy
didn’t look there, didn’t direct one guilty glance,
engaged her eyes the whole time, which was a first since she was
fifteen with men and boys of any age."
by Amelia Beamer
"The silence lasted only a moment. Long enough. She wished
she’d had one more drink at the bar. That she was a little
thinner or funnier. That this didn’t mean as much as it
did. She wanted him still, wondered if she should make the first
move. How delicate this moment was, she thought. How easily the
tenderness might boil away."
by Roger Bonner
"Marriage and domesticity with its concessions and petty
squabbles had never held much appeal for him. He preferred a carefree
life with the thrill of acquiring a fresh lover at least once
or twice a year. However, this was at a price. The wooing and
bedding of a new woman had become more arduous, not to mention
the dumping process. His relationships always ended hysterically,
with the women shedding copious tears or even physically attacking
him, like Ginger."
by Sarah Elmendorf
"Guts likes slim whores with long straight hair, any color,
and the ability to balance a checkbook. Right now he's seeing
an elementary school teacher named Jeanette. She likes cheap cigarettes,
Portuguese fados, and the Beastie Boys. She sings country western
karaoke, and wears stud seed pearl earrings, tiny horn rim glasses,
and pink satin girl boxers that peek out of the waistband of her
Levi's when she's bent over picking up kid toys or scouring the
ring out of the bathtub."
by Sam Jayne
"Despite her love of candy, she somehow maintained a perfect
figure; slim but still shapely. Her breasts bulged in the confinements
of her black T-Shirt, which sported the cheeky slogan, “Bite
Me!”, emblazoned across her chest in pink lettering. She
was in her mid twenties, enigmatic and seemingly wise to the world.
I wanted her badly."
by Kris Saknussemm
"Then we start to get really hot…touching each other…kissing…and
then we think what it would be like to fuck while on the wheel,
flying around this haunted fairground. You’ve got this flimsy
mint julep dress on with no panties and I’m wearing microfiber
cargo pants. You’re wet and ready. It’s easy for me
to pull it out and slide into you. You can ride me while we speed
higher and harder around and around."
by Dawn Ryan
"She was no Lama, I knew that. It wasn’t possible that
she could have reached enlightenment in such a short period of
time, and how does one willfully go from finger-fucking in the
bathroom stall of some dive to meditating under the Boddhi tree?
And how does it become a for-profit enterprise? I hadn’t
even spoken to her and I was angry with her already. A master
of what? A healer of what? The magic that had lived inside of
me and kept me believing and hopeful, the image of Lily that had
meant so much to me, The Virgin Mother herself, all her greatness
and glory, was demolished the second I learned that she called
herself a master, a healer, a missionary, a nun."
by Gwen Wilson
"Thomas knew that he had no reason to be truthful or, for
that matter, to believe anything told to him. For all he knew,
Lilac69 was a thirteen-year old boy from Pennsylvania, a transvestite
from Texas, maybe a college student in Taiwan. Or she could be
what she said she was: a 39-year old Baltimore woman contemplating
divorce from a man who had, she was relatively certain, spent
the last year screwing one of their neighbors."
"She smelled sick, a poison sick coming from her pores and
her breath. Otis was reminded of the deathbed stink of his younger
brother Johnie, who sold cane liquor from the trunk of his blocked
up El Dorado in the front yard of his his kudzu vined palace in
Yoayus, Tennessee. Johnie drank the liquor, too, plenty of it,
and turned sick from it, really sick because he had contracted
hep from all the other stuff he did."
"I feel aroused as I think of lying across the top of the
piano, getting fucked over the guts and strings of one of the
great symbols of civility, my legs spread ignobly, my body tuned
to the physical sensations of sound and movement, moisture and
masculinity. I wonder why I haven’t done it before, on top
of the modern incarnation of the invention of a man who was a
harpsichord maker for a Florentine duke, a man who knew in the
late 1600s and early 1700s, even though he couldn’t yet
see it yet, that there was more to the world of sound than strings
that had to be plucked and coerced to give up their sounds."
"'I'm being stalked by the last man I interviewed. He's scary
as hell. He's been in and out of jail since he was a juvenile,
but he never spent more than three years inside for any one crime.
That was for assault. Then he raped a woman. He was looking at
twenty-five years, but she couldn’t bring herself to testify,
and he got off. I know her, and I know what he did to her. And
the way he looks at me I know he wants to do the same to me.'"