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Free Hot Pics by Sam Lipsyte


How she got into this amateur stuff I haven’t the foggiest. Maybe she ran away from somewhere to join the circus, but tell me, where are you going to find a circus to join? Seen any elephants marching down Main Street lately? Seen any tents in your town? I figure she got into this amateur stuff because it paid well and she was good at it. She knew how to make it seem like she was having excitements when the men did this and that to her and bent her over like a doll. It’s all about how you sound when they get so much up into you. You have to sound like it’s the best thing you’ve got going that day. You can’t sound like you’re thinking about did I leave the iron on. So what if you left the iron on? Just so long as it doesn’t touch anything. Then again maybe something could go wrong without the iron touching anything at all. I’m thinking along the lines of how they’re always saying you shouldn’t plug in too many things into one extension, which I never understood, because they make them with all those holes to plug things into and then they say you shouldn’t plug so many things in. So why make all those holes? Isn’t somebody paying attention? Isn’t somebody looking out for us? Or do they all have it in for us? This is for philosophers to judge. It’s out of my range. All I know is I like the amateur stuff because it seems more real. Like if the lighting is bad, I know real people were doing bad things. Not that it’s bad, but you know what I mean. I know I know. When I see it.


People tend to call me anal but I call it neat. One man’s anal is another man’s. Where I was a boy we had what you might call close quarters so of course we were anal if that’s what you insist on calling it. We had tidiness, that’s for sure. The toaster was always shiny and we had these special hooks for our cups. You wanted a cup, you went to the hook, you unhooked it. I mean the kind of cup with a handle. The kind you could drink tea from and hold it by the handle. God forbid we leave tea bags in the sink, though. We’d be in for it if we left them in the sink. People who live in big places, palaces, say, or castles or keeps, they can be all sloppy and devil-may-care, toss their tunics about and talk with their pinkies up. That’s for them, and I can’t say they haven’t earned it. But close quarters means keeping what my mother used to call a semblance of order. It’s fine to come on somebody’s ass, she used to tell us, just be sure to wipe the semen away with a hand towel. It takes less than a minute, and the gesture will certainly be appreciated.


There are people who like to hang from harnesses, hog-tied. Others don rhinestone-studded masks, or carry Polaroids of Renaissance shoes. It’s all part of a magical game to them, though it can confuse their co-workers. My cubicle once adjoined that of a man who confided his weekends in me. Seems this man was partial to an activity known as Thermopylae. He and his boyfriend would stand in the doorway of their bedroom with rubber swords. Meanwhile, about twenty or thirty “Persians” he’d contacted through a special agency would rush the two of them in waves. Eventually they’d break through to the bedroom, but this could take until late Sunday night. Then the “Persians” would tie the man and his boyfriend up, whip them, proclaim them slaves of Xerxes, have a few drinks and go home. This man said it was the only way he could still get aroused by his boyfriend, who’d grown fat from diabetes over the last few years.






Good luck finding evidence of an acclaimed movie actress having fondled a horse to full release. Your best bet is to go to sleep and hope for visitations in dream. When celebrities visit me in dream they are both celebrities and ordinary people at the same time. The line has somehow blurred, or gone runny. These celebrities, who in the waking world are known to all of us by their first names — Clem, Vincenzo, Sarafina — seem suddenly devoid of grace, as though they’d developed an infection of the inner ear. They knock drinks to the carpet and mispronounce the names of modern composers. You never really see them naked. You see them seem so, though.

Group Sex

There’s FFM and MMF and MMMFF and all kinds of other combinatory possibilities. Infinity is so refreshing. Why is it we have no problem digesting the wholesale slaughter of armies on the field of battle — consider the gruesome carnage of Visby — but inviting fifteen friends over to suck and fuck is frowned upon? The naked people shuddering and losing fluids on your furniture will eventually get up, get dressed, and drive off into the night-colored dark. The corpses of Swedish soldiers buried in their armor against custom rotted in their mail coats for six hundred years. Who would you rather be: the man who just got a blowjob from the president of the PTA or Sven Svensen, all of twenty, killed by an ax blade to his sun-blasted cheek?


There are all sorts of teens and some of them you should talk to about sex. You should tell them how beautiful they are and then you should beg them to have sex with you. There are other kinds of teens it would be wrong to beg because they are the kinds of teens who do not understand the wondrous new feelings coursing through their bodies. When I was a teen I’d get quite sweaty playing crab soccer and my nipples would sting. It was not so wondrous because of the pain but it was definitely a new feeling I did not understand, and still don’t.


Native Americans are the descendants of Asians who crossed the Bering Strait land bridge thousands of years ago. This, at least, was the information given to me by a teacher named Mrs. Markowski in the early part of my life. I never knew any Asians in my town, just Japanese kids and Korean kids and Chinese kids and some Vietnamese kids. I remember in the back of my school there was a bricked-in area sunk in the ground, a basement exit, I believe. We called it the Pit and it was here that our after-school fisticuffs were conducted. One afternoon James Chung and Herbert Kwak fought down there as a result of an enmity which had been festering for some time. Though James was of Chinese descent and Herbert Korean, I’m not to understand there were any ethnic dimensions to their dispute. The theory of the era had it the two boys simply didn’t care for one another. The day of the fight a rumor spread through our school that Herbert, a brown belt in karate, had sworn an oath to break James Chung’s windpipe with the edge of his hand. James, with no training in the martial arts, had countered with a promise to “kick the shit out of that faggot.” James and Herbert entered the Pit at approximately 3:17 p.m. on a blustery November afternoon in the year 1981. Amid chants of “Chink,” “Gook,” and, incongruously enough, “Nigger,” they commenced their duel. No sooner had James landed a blow which opened a small cut on Herbert’s cheek then Mr. Barrow, a geometry teacher who’d once been discovered by his students finger-banging Mrs. Markowski in the coat closet, leaped into the Pit. Herbert, attempting to launch his vaunted windpipe chop, caught Mr. Barrow in the belly. Mr. Barrow fell to his knees. Both James and Herbert were later suspended but the blemish was expunged from their records when they were graduated to high school. James went on to a successful career in advertising. Herbert is a child psychiatrist living in Austin. These are just two of the countless examples of Asians experiencing both joy and sadness in their lives. As for myself, I would descend to the Pit for the first time in April of 1982, amid a hail of pennies and the jeer, “Kike!”


The oral tradition probably began when men first learned to walk upright on their tongues. Through the ages our kind has gathered around some sort of warming conflagration to swap tales of heroism or cautionary fables which concern a toad and instill in the listener a desire to proceed with fear. No one can ascertain when the first oral recitation was delivered and we know even less about how it was received. Perhaps there were grunts of approbation, or perhaps we simply like to imagine ourselves grunting in a similar situation. Probably there was a pounding of sharpened stones in the dirt. This would notify the orator that his material was “fresh.” Fellatio and cunnilingus first appeared much later in the woods of Connecticut on an abandoned mattress.


All photography by Richard Kern, except where noted.



©2002 Sam Lipsyte and

Sam Lipsyte is the author of a story collection, Venus Drive, and a novel,The Subject Steve. His fiction has been published in The Quarterly and Open City.