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Smut Vol. 1 is featured in Edition: Love + Sex baby

They are touching each others’ arms now, with freckles, with downy hair. Touch his stomach, I say, to both. Four eyes beam up at me, frightened. It’s okay, I say. It’s for me, I say. Please. And their hands, shaking slightly, reach down under the loose t-shirts and just glance over their stomachs, which have tiny lines of sweat forming in the creases from sitting.

I am in my chair. They feel scared, even from over here, but not awful scared. They’re open-hearted and they can stand it. They have untested liberal minds. They are also getting turned on. Their faces move closer together as one grazes the inner arm of the other.

Kiss him, I say, out loud.

The light through the drawn curtains is a dark red and partially obscures their clean-shaven faces. They lean in, and their cheeks bump at first and finally touch. Their lips, so soft. They are tentative and frightened, faces pressing gently against each other. Lips meet. Boy lips on boy lips. I love watching them. I could watch them for hours. Their heads leaning and listing, the lips learning what to do, how almost-familiar it all is.

One stops. Looks at me. Is this alright? he asks. His lips glisten. Why don’t you come join us —

Standing in line at Kossar’s he made the acquaintance of a beautiful young Vassar girl who had just finished her creative writing thesis on Henry Miller and pre-post-feminist pornography. She had curly dark hair and breasts like wineskins. Though they had never met before, and though Weinberg had not spoken a word nor made any gesture more than a small epileptic bobble that might have been mistaken for a nod, the girl greeted him effusively, asked him how he was, and immediately put two hands on his ass. “Fine, thank you,” Weinberg said. Before he knew it they were on the floor of the Vassar girl’s dead grandmother’s rent-controlled apartment, Weinberg with three black socks in his mouth, making love like animals. They spent all afternoon in an orgy of groping, fondling, fucking, and whitefish, and she never once mentioned her schoolwork. It was too good to be true. Finally at seven o’clock, when Weinberg’s oily face had begun to itch, and after the girl’s dead grandmother’s fourteen cats had been mewling for their dinner for six hours, the girl took the black socks out of Weinberg’s mouth, wiped the chopped onions off his underpants, and showed him the door. “That was fantastic,” she said. “Don’t call me.”

Only when he had returned home and after he had poured himself a cup of coffee and lit three cigarettes did Weinberg remember the mustache. Had it been a hallucination? Was it still there? If so, why had the Vassar girl said nothing about it? Had she seen a penis mustache before? “Well,” Weinberg said to himself, “if anyone has ever seen a penis mustache, it’s bound to be a Vassar girl.” Chuckling over this pithy truth, Weinberg dismissed his early-morning vision and went into the kitchen to begin washing a large pile of dirty dishes. For several hours he splashed happily while listening to a loop tape of Bob Dylan singing “Hurricane,” but at last, while attacking burnt-on tsimmes with a spackle knife, he was assailed by doubt. He did not take hallucinogens or yoga and had never had visions before. Besides, it had seemed so real. Meditatively, Weinberg pulled out the waistband of his aquamarine sweatpants and lifted his unit in his left hand — he gasped, letting fall from his lips two lit cigarettes and thereby lighting his tsimmes pan on fire. The mustache was still there. 

At last, a flash of fresh hope on the screen, a new message for me from a man on the Lower East Side, who looks just like all the boys before him, young and wiry, sideburns like strips of bacon, long and unshapely, an inch of buzzed hair around his head, pulling back on his forehead in echo of a grandfather or a great uncle, and two earrings in the upper right hand corner of his ear. Two entirely gay earrings. But I know they’re not supposed to be gay because look right there, there on his profile, it says, “Straight,” right above “Play.” And I read his email, which gently suggests that the red, red lips of my profile picture would look even better around the tip of his cock.

It’s on. I am so troubled. And it is on.