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Adair, Jay |
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Aldrich, Janet M. |
Allan, T. N. |
Allen, M. G. |
Ammonds, Phillip J. |
Anderson, Fred |
Anderson, Peter |
Andreopoulos, Elliott |
Arab, Bint |
Armstrong, Dini |
Augustyn, P. K. |
Aymar, E. A. |
Babbs, James |
Baber, Bill |
Bagwell, Dennis |
Bailey, Ashley |
Bailey, Thomas |
Baird, Meg |
Bakala, Brendan |
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Balaz, Joe |
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Barlow, Tom |
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Bayly, Karen |
Baugh, Darlene |
Bauman, Michael |
Baumgartner, Jessica Marie |
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Beck, George |
Beckman, Paul |
Benet, Esme |
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Bennett, Charlie |
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Blakey, James |
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Boyd, Morgan |
Boyle, James |
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Brooke, j |
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Burton, Michael |
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Butler, Terence |
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Campbell, Jack Jr. |
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Cardinale, Samuel |
Cardoza, Dan A. |
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Cartwright, Steve |
Carver, Marc |
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Connor, Tod |
Cooper, Malcolm Graham |
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Coral, Jay |
Corrigan, Mickey J. |
Cosby, S. A. |
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Coverley, Harris |
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Davies, J. C. |
Davis, Christopher |
Davis, Michael D. |
Day, Holly |
de Bruler, Connor |
Degani, Gay |
De France, Steve |
De La Garza, Lela Marie |
Deming, Ruth Z. |
Demmer, Calvin |
De Neve, M. A. |
Dennehy, John W. |
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Di Chellis, Peter |
Dillon, John J. |
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Dioguardi, Michael Anthony |
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Doran, Phil |
Doreski, William |
Dority, Michael |
Dorman, Roy |
Doherty, Rachel |
Dosser, Jeff |
Doyle, Jacqueline |
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Draime, Doug |
Drake, Lena Judith |
Dromey, John H. |
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Duncan, Gary |
Dunham, T. Fox |
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Duy, Michelle |
Eade, Kevin |
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Ellman, Neil |
England, Kristina |
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Farren, Jim |
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Funk, Matthew C. |
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Hanson, Christopher Kenneth |
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Harris, Bruce |
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King, Michelle Ann |
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Liskey, Tom Darin |
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Mellon, Mark |
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Middleton, Bradford |
Miles, Marietta |
Miller, Max |
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Monson, Mike |
Mooney, Christopher P. |
Moran, Jacqueline M. |
Morgan, Bill W. |
Moss, David Harry |
Mullins, Ian |
Mulvihill, Michael |
Muslim, Kristine Ong |
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Nelson, Trevor |
Nessly, Ray |
Nester, Steven |
Neuda, M. C. |
Newell, Ben |
Newman, Paul |
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Nobody, Ed |
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Park, Jon |
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Partin-Nielsen, Judith |
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Perez, Juan M. |
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Petroziello, Brian |
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Petyo, Robert |
Phillips, Matt |
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Pierce, Rob |
Pietrzykowski, Marc |
Plath, Rob |
Pointer, David |
Post, John |
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Power, Jed |
Powers, M. P. |
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Prazych, Richard |
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Ragan, Robert |
Ram, Sri |
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Renney, Mark |
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Rhiel, Ann Marie |
Ribshman, Kevin |
Ricchiuti, Andrew |
Richardson, Travis |
Richey, John Lunar |
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Rihlmann, Brian |
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Ritchie, Salvadore |
Robinson, John D. |
Robinson, Kent |
Rodgers, K. M. |
Roger, Frank |
Rose, Mandi |
Rose, Mick |
Rosenberger, Brian |
Rosenblum, Mark |
Rosmus, Cindy |
Rowland, C. A. |
Ruhlman, Walter |
Rutherford, Scotch |
Sahms, Diane |
Saier, Monique |
Salinas, Alex |
Sanders, Isabelle |
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Santo, Heather |
Savage, Jack |
Sayles, Betty J. |
Schauber, Karen |
Schneeweiss, Jonathan |
Schraeder, E. F. |
Schumejda, Rebecca |
See, Tom |
Sethi, Sanjeev |
Sexton, Rex |
Seymour, J. E. |
Shaikh, Aftab Yusuf |
Sheagren, Gerald E. |
Shepherd, Robert |
Shirey, D. L. |
Shore, Donald D. |
Short, John |
Sim, Anton |
Simmler, T. Maxim |
Simpson, Henry |
Sinisi, J. J. |
Sixsmith, JD |
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Small, Alan Edward |
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Smith, Willie |
Smuts, Carolyn |
Snethen, Daniel G. |
Snoody, Elmore |
Sojka, Carol |
Solender, Michael J. |
Sortwell, Pete |
Sparling, George |
Spicer, David |
Squirrell, William |
Stanton, Henry G. |
Steven, Michael |
Stevens, J. B. |
Stewart, Michael S. |
Stickel, Anne |
Stoler, Cathi |
Stolec, Trina |
Stoll, Don |
Stryker, Joseph H. |
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Succre, Ray |
Sullivan, Thomas |
Surkiewicz, Joe |
Swanson, Peter |
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Sweet, John |
Tarbard, Grant |
Tait, Alyson |
Taylor, J. M. |
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Thrax, Max |
Ticktin, Ruth |
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Torrence, Ron |
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Turner, Lamont A. |
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Waldman, Dr. Mel |
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Walters, Luke |
Ward, Emma |
Washburn, Joseph |
Watt, Max |
Weber, R.O. |
Weil, Lester L. |
White, Judy Friedman |
White, Robb |
White, Terry |
Wickham, Alice |
Wilhide, Zach |
Williams, K. A. |
Wilsky, Jim |
Wilson, Robley |
Wilson, Tabitha |
Woodland, Francis |
Woods, Jonathan |
Young, Mark |
Yuan, Changming |
Zackel, Fred |
Zafiro, Frank |
Zapata, Angel |
Zee, Carly |
Zeigler, Martin |
Zimmerman, Thomas |
Butler, Simon Hardy |
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Having a Ball at the Pub by Carolyn Smuts Fucking. Bitch. That’s
what she was. I sat there
nursing my warm beer. Hell, it was barely beer, it was Michelob Ultra—95
calories and 2.6 carbs of unsatisfying, barely alcoholic swill. But hey, 95 calories and
I was still on my first one! I’m not exactly dog meat but I could stand to lose a
few and until I do, it’s a strict regimen of two Ultras per night. Period. Then the bitch showed up. Holy fucking shit, you’d
think no guy in the bar had ever seen boobs before. I don’t know how she even walked
on the slutty platform Salvatore Ferragamo shoes and her Prada
dress, the one that barely hid her vagina, probably cost more than I make in a month. Her
makeup was high-end and expertly applied; it definitely wasn’t Revlon. If I wasn’t
completely jealous, I swear I’d have been attracted to her. She threw back every
single free drink the desperate dopes bought her. Skinny little bitch. “Oh, my gosh! That is soooo cool of you! Thank
youuuuuu!” Then an air-kiss near the
cheek. Effer-fucking-vescent. Charming.
Polished. Puke-inducing. Look, I had nothing against her; it was the way guys
I knew, guys who should know better, were making asses of themselves fawning over what
was clearly a stripper. Women can spot a fraud; guys are clueless in matters of the
cock. And why did she get all the free, fattening drinks full of scrumptious,
syrupy sugar and ambrosial alcohol and why did none of those calories show on
her ass? So fucking unfair. Seriously, her butt was the tight, skinny kind seen
on 13-year-old boys. Whatever. It was about time
to down the last of my Ultra and have the second at home. I watched her move in for the kill on one of the guys.
When her mouth approached his ear in an intimate whisper, his face went from euphoric to
confused then back to euphoric. He sheepishly shook his head and she
understandingly and apologetically patted him on the leg. Turning to another
admirer, she leaned in and applied the same whisper. Fuck, she
was not a stripper; she was a real pro, a damn
hooker! I had to see the rest. Screw going home; this show was too good. I ordered my second
beer. This second dude was totally
into her. They retired to a corner pub table and chatted intimately, him laughing
at every line she administered, her stroking his inner thigh and leaning in to hear him
speak like he was the most fascinating sage ever to walk the face of the earth. He got up and walked to the cash machine. They were
totally gonna close the deal. This was a lot more entertaining than whatever I would have
been watching on HBO. She turned
to her left and reached for her purse, legs uncrossing and opening as she grabbed it. That's when I saw them.
Two freshly shaved balls tucked up inside that $3500 Prada dress.
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Art by Cindy Rosmus © 2017 |
I Hate Dave Matthews by Carolyn Smuts Bad sex ruins good songs. When I first heard “Crash into
Me” by the Dave Matthews Band, I liked it, but stoner sex got it blacklisted
even though it’s a sexy damn song. In 1994, I wore my hair in “The
Rachel” style. I was engaged to Kevin and teaching at South Torrance High School
near LA. I carpooled daily with one of my colleagues, an idiotic pothead named Marcus.
He was physically hot as
hell—a swimmer with well-defined muscles and gorgeous skin. Mentally, he was a box of rocks, a condition
not helped by the weed he smoked daily. Yeah, I
was engaged, but Kevin and I had zero chemistry. I already
felt trapped by his sterile sexuality and we weren’t even married. Marcus potentially
offered zero commitment, no-strings carnality without the threat of liking him too much.
We engaged in a few months of fun, back-and-forth, flirty talk in the car which eventually
evolved into hand play of every sort during our drives. God, his skin was amazing. We never kissed in the early
days but when we finally did, things progressed past the point of no return
almost immediately. After school, I followed him to
his house and we screwed while Dave Matthews soulfully crooned “Crash into Me” in
the background. It was
awful—the sex with Marcus, not the song. Stoners are the worst in bed—flat and selfish. There was nothing
erotic about the way he moved; he pretty much just wanted to stuff his cock in me. And that he did with zero art or
style. He buried his face in my shoulder and thrusted lazily, grunting each
time. Too tired to prop himself on his arms, his shoulder pinned me to the mattress.
I couldn’t move if I wanted to, which I did not. Within
ten seconds, I couldn’t wait for it to be over.
Sadly, the bong on his nightstand reminded me his senses were dull as hell and I’d
probably be there a while. It was the longest twenty minutes of my life and listening to
Dave Matthews on a loop made me feel like I was trapped in some kind of
torturous fun house—the sexy song punctuating the silence and the actual sex as
gratifying as nails on a chalkboard. The guilt
was worse. For years I could not hear the
song—the tawdry, secret fuck song—without feeling literal nausea. I learned
to love my steering wheel volume controls because they allowed instant silencing of Dave’s
plaintive voice without having to reach up and turn the dial. I can’t help but wonder: If the
sex had been good, where would I be today? I’d never have “been” with
Marcus—the stupid, beautiful, stoned swimmer—in any real way,
but I’d probably never have married Kevin had I known
good sex. Last Friday, I heard the
song for the first time in a decade—certainly for the first time since
Kevin and I divorced. I forced myself to listen. It was enjoyable and nostalgically sexy
in a ‘90s sort of way. There was no nausea, only an excited, sick adrenaline
twinge in my solar plexus—it was good; maybe how it was supposed to make me
feel, had it not been ruined by pot and guilt.
Carolyn
Smuts taught history before trading academic life for corporate America. She’s
been writing for business and pleasure more than ten years with recent fiction works published
by Intrinsick, Prolific Press,
Jitter, Dual
Coast, and The Dirty Pool. She spends weekends
studying weird local history, running, drinking, and hiking the hills of Southern California
with her family.
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In Association with Fossil Publications
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