Ben Newell

by Horror Sleaze Trash on February 14, 2014

photo


Ben Newell pays the rent clerking at the Millsaps College Library in Jackson, Mississippi.  His prose and poetry has appeared in Horror Sleaze Trash, Hustler Fantasies, Nerve Cowboy, Regardless of Authority, Zygote in my Coffee, and others.  His porn novel, Smut Writer, will be released by Torrid Books in March 2014.


ask your doctor if your heart is healthy enough for sexual activity

 

Or don’t—

 

Just whip it out
for the preliminary hummer,
then stick it in;
if you die, you die.
At least you go down happy,
eliminated with your pants down
and your cock plunged to the hilt.
Beats the hell out of caution,
expiring on the sofa,
fully-clothed and flaccid;
while she gets it
from the dude
next door.



 

Does Beer Make You Stronger?

 

I’m at the supermarket
when I see this on the cover of Maxim,
stalling my progress,
freezing me
as I consider the question.

 

It may not make you stronger,
but it can create the illusion
of strength and invincibility;
sometimes that’s all you need
to turn fantasy into reality,
say goodbye to the Aura Phase
and make something happen—

 

Approaching in an arm sling,
dropping your textbooks,
asking for assistance,
luring her to your car
where the tire tool is stashed
behind the right rear tire;
one good crack to the head
and you’re out of there,
whisking her away
for an afternoon
of crazy fun.


 

send pic of dick

I like to think
that the reason I’m alone
is strictly geographical;
I simply do not connect
with the women
in my native region.

 

I did try online dating,
but they wanted to go tailgating,
and found it imperative
that I put Jesus first;
it’s damn near impossible
for a heathen
to find a suitable mate
down here in the
SEC Bible Belt—

 

I don’t care who wins;
and I never put Jesus first,
relegating me to casual encounters
with women who post gynecological pics
and come with a price
I’m willing to pay.


 

While they pray for us

I do my grocery shopping
on Sunday mornings
as
everybody down here
is at church.
For the most part,
I have the store
to myself,
just me
and other infidels,
probing the desolate aisles
for sustenance,
grateful for the space
and quietude
in which to forage,
getting in and out
prior to the after-church rush.
Not that we know
anything about that;
we’re long gone by then,
but we’ve all heard
the stories,
those awful stories
about fellowship,
faith
and family.




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