Tag Archives: sex

Now is the Summer of Our Disconsweat

It was too hot to do anything but sit around and complain about the heat. We ran out of ice cubes and drank warm water from the tap, wiping the sweat from under our knees and behind our necks. My cheeks were flushed pink. His shirt was soaked through. The city felt damp from humidity and summer angst.

The air conditioner was broken.

“Want to do it?” he asked. A bead of sweat dribbled down his forehead and clung to his brow.

The thought of any physical activity was enough to make me roll off the couch, lie on the floor and stretch my legs out against the cool wood planks. I could feel dust sticking to my thighs.

“Great, I’m so happy you want to boredom-fuck me.”

[from my pseudonymous column at The Gloss]


See, I write shit.

I just can’t come to terms with putting my name on my writing. And why should I, if all I’m going to write about is dicks and cocks?

Here, look. I freelanced something. And I used a pen name! I’m such a tramp.


Shadows fell on the wall next to our bed. His arms. My elbows. The brief and intermittent sighs that lovers make filled the room. The pale, yellowing light in the window looked gold. His eyes stayed shut. After a while, I shut mine too, and let his breath pulse again against my neck and wait for the heater to kick back on.

Your Pussy Has Left New York

“Are you kidding?” she asks, but doesn’t expect an answer. She’s leaning against the bar, her long arms draped over it, her fingers dipping in beer spills.

Wagner is silent. He isn’t kidding, clearly.

“She left, and she’s not coming back!” she exclaims.

Wagner nods. “I know. It’s too late.” He moves closer to me, in the middle. I move closer to her. She looks at herself in the mirror. We all look at ourselves in the big mirror behind the bar, continuing conversation through glass.

“What am I supposed to do?” Wagner asks.

“What are you supposed to do?” she repeats. She turns away from the mirror and at the crowd of men gathered to her right. “What is he supposed to do?”

The men perk up at the sight of a friendly, intoxicated blonde. “What is he supposed to do?”

The ringleader motions for the group to stand up. They circle us like vultures. I notice wedding bands. I sip my whiskey, neat, and shift away from Wagner, who is fingering his cellphone and staring at me in the mirror.

She sits up straight. “He dated this girl for years. And he’s here from Florida. And she left, she went back home, and he let her go.”

“Where’d she go?” asked one of the married men.

“Home,” she answers.

“The Lower East Side,” adds Wagner.

“Home,” she repeats. “But then she’s moving. This is it. She’s moving back to California.”

“Oh god,” moans Wagner, and I can’t tell if it’s the crowd, or the booze, or the thought of Los Angeles.

“Wagner! You’ve got to call her!”

The crowd of men agrees, sipping their beers and nodding enthusiastically.

“You’ve got to call her or else.”

“Or else what?” asks Wagner.

“Or else she’s gone. She’s practically gone already. This is it!”

The men offer suggestions, like witty text messages and come hither smiley face emoticons that would convince her via SMS to felate him. Wagner just fingers his cellphone, passing it from hand to hand, staring at himself in the mirror.

“You’re going to wait too long and that’s going to be it.”

“And then what?” asks a married man.

“And then your pussy has left New York.” She excuses herself to use the bathroom. The men slink away, back to their beers and conversations and boring, married lives.

Wagner looks at me in the mirror. I take his phone and text her for him. And then I go back to my whiskey, neat.

Poem For People That Are Understandably Too Busy To Read Poetry

Poem For People That Are Understandably Too Busy To Read Poetry
by Stephen Dunn

Relax. This won’t last long.
Or if it does, or if the lines
make you sleepy or bored,
give in to sleep, turn on
the T.V., deal the cards. Continue reading

Dark Was The Night

There is only one way to make love.

This is what I will say to myself, poetic,
wrapped in the ends of blankets and the beginnings of speech.

There are many ways to get you in bed, but only one way to make love.
To you or to anyone, it is always the same.
Different music, different hands, different heartbreaking whispers and whiskers.
But just one way.

empire-state-building-nightThe Empire State Building turns its lights off at 12:02 on my alarm clock. Music or silence; it doesn’t matter. The top of it beats on and on for airplanes and blimps and emotional projectiles. The darkness is palpable. This is where your hands stick on the small of my back. This is where New York is flooded with the darkness of the night. Here is where we tuck our heads back and press our palms against one another, fingers slowly tracing through hair, around the hospital corners of the bed. This is romance. I don’t remember what happens next. The ocean of silence, or heavy breathing. I can’t remember.

The Empire State Building is most beautiful in the split second the lights go out.
The night is split in gaping darkness and the heat of anticipation.
I will say this to myself, poetic,
our silence is greater than the darkness.

It could be different. We could make it different, if you’d like.

What Women Want

desireToday’s New York Times Magazine confirmed what we all suspected — that women are turned on by just about everything, but won’t admit to most of it. It’s true, and they’ve interviewed hip lady scientists to prove it.

Thanks for the tip on how to turn on the smart ladies, NYT. Because men are really going to read all the way to page eight to get to to the rape fantasy part. And you didn’t just take the feminist movement back twenty years.