My girlfriend takes a body-rolling class.
The teacher tells her to practice
10 minutes a night while watching TV.
The book tells her the series of pelvic
exercises will make our love-making —
anyone’s love-making —
everyone’s love-making —
more “pleasurable & intense.”
Who doesn’t want that?

I like the idea of more “pleasurable &
intense” love-making, but I don’t like
the word “love-making.” What’s wrong
with “fucking?” I say. Must we be so
pristine? What’s wrong with a little
good old-fashioned fucking?

But the problem, it turns out, is not
one of nomenclature, but one of supplies:

“We need balls,” she says.

“Since when?”

“Spongy pink balls,” she says.


“For my feet — for my body-rolling,” she says.

“Oh,” I say, feeling sheepish. Of course.

We scour the basement, but as it turns out,
we don’t have any balls — there, or anywhere.
We are a household entirely devoid of balls.
We have a combination lock that we don’t
know the combination for. We have an ID
bracelet, a monkey wrench, a set of old Spy
Tech walkie-talkies, & a cat scratching post
with most of the carpet scratched off—

but no balls.

We have —

but no balls.

So I call up the store, & I say to the man
who answers —

“Sir, could you tell me — do you have
spongy pink balls?”

Click, the receiver goes.

So I call up a different store, & more
cautiously, I say to the woman who answers —

“Perhaps you could help me — I’m looking for a set
of balls — ”

She is quick to intercept me —
“Then why don’t you grow a pair?”

“Don’t hang up — I need balls.”


“I’m looking to buy some spongy
pink balls — ”


“It’s for body-rolling. My girlfriend
needs balls — ”


“We’re going to have to try the Internet,”
she says, so I type in what, according to
Ockham’s Razor, should be the simplest

It’s a blog site, but nobody mentions balls —
not where to get them, nothing.

The commentary goes like this:

i love to watch people suck their wieners

i like big wieners

i love to suck wieners all the time

i enjoy watching other people do it too

Want to contribute?
Join or sign in

(Site last accessed by author 7/12/09)

“I think we’re going to have to go to the store,”
I say.

“The real store — out there where the people are?”

“Yes,” I say.

“But I’m in my bathrobe, & I’m sleepy, & it’s Sunday.
Who goes to the store on Sunday to buy balls?”

“Someone who needs them for body-rolling,” I say.

“Are we going to a toy store?”

“I think we should.”

“Is a toy store the best place to buy balls?”

“I think it is.”

“On Sunday?”

“On any day,” I say.

“But won’t it seem creepy — that we don’t have kids,
& are trying to buy balls, just the two of us, without kids,
on a Sunday?”

“Good point,” I say. “We’ll have to buy balls on
Tuesday afternoon.”

She agrees & pours more coffee.
“You can do almost anything on a Tuesday afternoon.”

Julie Marie Wade

The Milkman

May 30, 2020

The door was bolted and the windows of my porch
Were screened to keep invaders out, the mesh of rust-
Proof wire sieved the elements. Did my throat parch
Then I sat at my table and ate with lust
Most chaste, the raw red apples: juice, flesh, rind and core.

One still and summer noon while dining in the sun
I was poulticing my thirst with apples, slaking care,
When suddenly I felt a whir of dread. Soon, soon,
Stiff as a bone I listened for the Milkman’s tread.
I heard him softly bang the door of the huge truck
And then his boots besieged my private yard. I tried
To keep my eyes speared to the table, but the suck
Of apprehension milked my force. At last he mounted
My backstairs, climbed to the top, and there he stood still
Outside the bolted door. The sun’s colour fainted.
I felt the horror of his quiet melt me, steal
Into my sockets, and seduce me to him from
My dinner. His hand clung round the latch like rubber.
I felt him ooze against the screen and shake the frame.
I had to slide the bolt; and thus I was the robber
Of my porch. Breathing smiling shape of fright,
The Milkman made his entrance; insistent donor,
He held in leprous hands the bottled sterile fruit,
And gave me this fatal, this apostate dinner.
Now in winter I have retreated from the porch
Into the house and the once-red apples rot where
I left them on the table. Now if my throat parch
For fruit the Milkman brings a quart for my despair.

Isabella Gardner

Oh, how much innuendo can one poem provide? This dedicated to milkmen all around the world –

When I said I wasn’t with another girl
the January after we fell in love for the 3rd time,
it’s because it wasn’t actual sex.

In the February that began our radio silence,
it was actual sex. I hate the tight shirts
that go below your waistline.

Not only do they make you look too young,
but then your torso is a giraffe’s neck attached to tiny legs.
I screamed at myself in the subway

for writing poems about you still.
I made a scene. I think about you almost
each morning, and roughly every five days, I still

believe you’re there.
I still masturbate to you.
When we got really bad,

I would put another coat of mop water on the floor of the bar
to make sure you were asleep when I got to my side of the bed.
You are the only person to whom I’ve lied, knowing

I was telling the truth. I miss the way your neck
wraps around my face like a cave we are both lost in.
I remember when you said being with me

is like being alone with company.
My friend Sarah wrote a poem about pink ponies.
I’m scared you’re my pink pony.

Hers is dead. It is really sad. You’re not dead.
You live in Ohio, or Washington, or Wherever.
You are a shadow my body leaves on other girls.

I have a growing queue of things I know
will make you laugh and I don’t know where to put them.
I mourn like you’re dead. If you had asked me to stay,

I would not have said no.
It would never mean yes.

Jon Sands


January 12, 2020

Sex is the sacred song of the soul; sex is the sanctuary of Self.

Aleister Crowley
The Book of the Law

Sacred Sex

December 5, 2019

It is sex. How wonderful sex can be, when men keep it powerful and sacred, and it fills the world! like sunshine through and through one!

D.H. Lawrence
The Plumed Serpent

fire spreading

September 4, 2019

It is wonderful to watch you,
A living woman in a room
Full of frantic sterile people,
And think of your arching buttocks
Under your velvet evening dress,
And the beautiful fire spreading
From your sex, burning flesh and bone,
The unbelievably complex
Tissues of your brain all alive
Under your coiling, splendid hair.

Kenneth Rexrothe
Between Myself and Death

Are You Hot for Me Yet

August 22, 2019

If you’re not on my hitlist you can go and find another murderer or just fuck off.
Jesus Christ, have you even read Sylvia Plath? We have literally nothing in common.
I pissed about over the ad all day and in the end settled for the tagline ‘terminally bored MILF
likes wrestling, hates love, needs a drug induced coma – apply within.’

Seriously, I wouldn’t fuck with me if I were the last poet on earth and God knows I’m not.
How vulnerable are you on a scale of one to ten? Ten being walks around city centres
with barely anything on and a little-girl pout looking to score coke and one being lives in a self-imposed
regime of silence in a vaulted room? I die every day to save you from seeing me.

Do you like smashing things and breaking things? I don’t need or want permission.
I only get off on causing the maximum amount of damage before the eyes of God.
You need to separate the sex from the poetry – just because you didn’t like how I blew you
doesn’t mean you can play about with my grammatical idiosyncrasies. So get this straight:

I don’t care about your complexities, right? If I take you out of context I want to know
you’ll blend in with the landscape. How regularly do you wear cocktail dresses? Do you know
how to create a convincing persona? We all want to live in a hotel dearie but can you infiltrate
the lives of others successfully? Oh God, you’re a writer? Oh well then, I guess that’s a no.

Melissa Lee-Houghton

feeling him fill her

July 28, 2019

Her aching sex was filled, her tight nipples throbbing, and she snapped her hips, lifting him as she had lifted the Prince feeling him fill her, pinon her.

Anne Rice
The Claiming of Sleeping Beauty

Before –

April 3, 2019

The Adams and Eves
continually expelled
and with what tenacity
returning at night!

when the two of them
did not count
and there were no months
no births and no music
their fingers were unnumbered.

when the two of them did not count
did they feel
a prickling behind the eyes
a thirst in the throat
for something other than
the perfume of infinite flowers
and the breath of immortal animals?
In their untrembling sleep
did the tips of their tongues
seek the bud of another taste
which was mortal and sweating?

Did they envy the longing
of those to come after the Fall?

Women and men still return
to live through the night
all that uncounted time.

And with the punctuality
of the first firing squad
the expulsion is at dawn”

John Berger
And Our Faces, My Heart, Brief as Photos

Séverine in Summer School

January 5, 2019

Naked for twenty-four of our last thirty-six
Hours together, and I mean museum-quality, sex-
Shop, God-riddling naked, sapping gold
Light from the windows of her hundred-year-old
Baltimore dorm, we were hungry for selling
Points, like a couple in a showroom. Compelling
Arguments were made to close the deal
And children were discussed. I kissed her from heel
To head in a shower without water;
Then with. Nude, she read me a letter as a waiter
Would his specials, and I couldn’t keep
My eyes off: smooth shoulders, belly, pelvis,
Deep olive skin all a balm against sleep.
It was from her sexy grandmother in Dieppe
And Séverine translated, both of us
Somehow drawn to this third party in a tidal
Sort of way, her lunar candour, her antipodal
Ease with words and the world. We were difficult,
Séverine and I, a beautiful strain, a cult
Of two. Even eating, we made lots of noise.
Even resting in bed, watching the trees,
Our lighter breathing, our limb-shifting, sheet-
Rustling, even our dreaming had fight.
Her heart was exceptionally loud – not with love,
But with knowing. Knowing what to be afraid of

Rex Wilder