ImageOutWrite: Volume Nine

As we create this anthology in quarantine, there are riots in Rochester and throughout the nation. In planning the 28th year of ImageOut, we see that now, even more than ever, we need representation, celebration, and big dreams. The events of this year have brought up some of the dark passages of our past: the early days of AIDS, the vestiges of Wounded Knee, the long fight for civil rights. As history repeats, we step up. We transform. We cycle back in grief, and we rise a little bit higher with each opportunity for communication, understanding, and redemption. The vision to nurture emerging and established voices, and to bear witness to facets of the LGBTQIA+ experience, is embraced here at ImageOut. As we ask the very human questions of what our world will become, as former editor Jessica Heatly pens, It’s a time of re-becoming for us all, and a time for renewal -- of self-discovery, of commitment, of community. Of humanity. This process is so important to share. This anthology exists as a labor of love and art to encourage a broad representation of a selection of our voices. Hear us loud! The literary arts perform their magic again: the rite of bringing us closer, of showing those moments and conducting a lightning bolt of connection through shattered and fragmented times.

There is nothing like finding a writer whose voice is so immediate that one has a physical response. I read to discover, to have the top of my head tingle, to travel in places I have never set foot in. I read to know.

We have a raft of extremely talented writers who have provided us with wonderful prose. There are writers who allow one to find oneself when one has lost their way. There are writers who bring you somewhere new. Point of view is key, but voice is a bolt cutter. While the important thing is that the story is told, to tell that story, a lot of choices must be made. These writers have circumvented the safe choice and gone right for the throat of the matter. What joins the choices of these artists is not subject matter, tense, or point of view, but that bolt cutter, voice. These writers have brought people, places, situations, and themes to vivid life. These distinct voices connected with us, the panel of readers, and hopefully, they will now do so with you. All is subjective, in literature and in life. We hope some of these stories and poems have the privilege of becoming close friends with you. Get ready! Rochester writer Damon W. Diehl delights us with Life in a Cabinet of Curiosities: An Interview with Dr. Daniel Edwards, Curator of The Davidovitch Collection. 2019 Lambda Literary Fellow in Fiction, Joe Baumann’s A River in Your Chest allows grief to cascade through us. Alex Carrigan, most recently published in Closet Cases: Queers on What We Wear, thrills us in Odessa Remembers.

We have old friends appearing in new ways. We are very excited to publish, for the first time, fiction by Joan Larkin. As a longtime admirer of her work in organizing and printing in the 70s, and her magnificent poetry, I find it amazing to witness this new aspect of master lyricist, activist, and publisher. As she writes in Eye of Newt, from Blue Hanuman, I dreamed myself...I burst through skin after skin. Art, I said,/and my wings fanned slowly open. We are showcasing these new and established authors on the eve of a new dawning. We are honored to be in the presence of the arrival of these artists.

The person who taught me to read passed on as we settled on the final selection for this anthology. It made sending out the acceptance letters even more poignant. My father, who loved Johnny Cash, Louis L’Amour, and Elvis Presley, passed away. He would have been tickled to see the inclusion of Rae Monroe’s lively A Boy Named Sue, which conjures a song we heard often ringing through the Northern pines, one of the four records we owned.

In becoming part of this remarkable publication, I am honored to join a lineage of creatives which includes Gregory Gerard, a visionary editor, and Jessica Heatly, the producer of our most recent volumes. Editing this anthology has been a wonderful experience.

There is nothing like discovering a great story, a resonant line, a life-changing poem. Here, you have your pick of stirring experiences. Enjoy your reading, and may these pieces make your life fuller and richer today. We hope this volume inspires you to write, to share your experiences, and to shine out. If you’re an artist, join us. Write to us. We hope to see you in next year's anthology. We hope to bear witness to your transformation, and to ours.

Peace,

JoNelle Toriseva, editor

ImageOutWrite

Volume Nine

Editor:

JoNelle Toriseva

Assistant Editors:

Becky Wiggins

Jessica Heatly

Reading Panel:

Deanna Baker

Robert C. Bonfiglio

Nancy Brown

Ryan DeWolfe

Steven Farrington

Judy Fuller

Margaret Speer

Gabi Wolfe

ImageOutWrite: Volume Nine

Editor: JoNelle Toriseva

Copyright © 2020 by ImageOut

All rights reserved. No part of this book shall be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, magnetic, photographic including photo-copying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior written permission of the publisher. No patent liability is assumed with respect to the use of the information contained herein. Although every precaution has been taken in the preparation of this book, the publisher, editor, and individual authors assume no responsibility for errors or omissions. Neither is any liability assumed for damages resulting from the use of the information contained herein.

ISBN 978-1-71661-982-3

Cover graphic design by Jeffrey Cougler

Cover art by Jeffrey Cougler

Published by ImageOut

Printed in the United States of America

Published September 2020

Table of Contents

Kevin Lane Dearinger

A SORT OF PRIDE ON THE CORNER OF MECHANIC AND UPPER

Neil Ellis Orts

MISTER DUST

James Thornton

HENRY AND DEREK

Mike McClelland

THE EUPHONIUM DIARIES

Luca Kouklanakis

BOY

Damon W. Diehl

LIFE IN A CABINET OF CURIOSITIES:

AN INTERVIEW WITH DR. DANIEL EDWARDS, CURATOR OF THE DAVIDOVICH COLLECTION

Jessica Firman

I’M NOT

Manuel Ingrejas

CAVALINHO NA CHUVA

Jen OConnor

HATBOX FANTASY

Alex Carrigan

ODESSA REMEMBERS

Jen OConnor

A WISH AT TWILIGHT

Allison Fradkin

NOT YOUR AVERAGE JO

Ben Kline

SAVED MESSAGE #96

C.O. Nyquist

I KNOW HOW THIS SOUNDS, BUT--

Kevin Lane Dearinger

FONDLY YOURS

Joe Baumann

A RIVER IN YOUR CHEST

Tim Louis Macaluso

DAVID IN KEY WEST

Rae Monroe

A BOY NAMED SUE

Caroline Carpenter

CONFRONTING THE WORD LESBIAN

Elías Miguel Muñoz

THE SOUND OF FIRST LOVE

Christopher Soden

WAFFLE HOUSE

Joan Larkin

MINNOW AND BOOTS

Doug Anthony

MY BLACK SKIN

John Pruitt

THE SCAR COLLECTOR: CHASING BURROUGHS

Christopher Soden

LIKE A STONE

AUTHOR ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

EDITORIAL ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

This collection is dedicated to everyone with their feet on the ground, marching, standing, dancing for change, for peace, for a safe future for everyone. You know who you are.

#LoveWins

A SORT OF PRIDE ON THE CORNER OF MECHANIC AND UPPER

Kevin Lane Dearinger

I am not at all sure

When the terrible thought

First tripped up ego

And expectation

But I do know that

For some dreary time

I have wonder-worried

With each kiss as it comes,

Will this be the last?

Attractions fade both ways

And unless you have made plans

Like the grasshopper in the tale

Intimacy retreats with age

Old lovers gone are not replaced

Except by ghosts that hover

As fractured facsimiles.

Was it, I ask, feeling their presence,

Lifting my mind away from the now

Into a nostalgia of dishonest reverie,

Like this the first time, long past,

And will this, in fact and spirit,

Be the last moist and tender lip

That searching, touches mine,

The last shared breath

The last surge of carnal courtship

That yearns from body to body

In a simple act of meeting

With a touch that crushes words?

And what was once an invitation

And exercise of youthful arrogance

Remains a reminder of the annihilation

That flowers out of longing.

Once more, once more, once more,

Before I am devoured.

MISTER DUST

Neil Ellis Orts

The knock came one minute past what he said would be his arrival time. Punctuality in the world of late-night random sex partners is an iffy proposition. This guy got extra points right away.

In the language of anonymous internet hookups, I was hosting. In the language of my internal monolog, I was collecting DNA samples. I stopped using that term in my external dialogs, as it seemed to creep out tricks, especially if they found out I often did collect samples in my professional life. I’ve learned to keep my work and pleasure separate.

I opened the door and he was practically a silhouette. I always keep the entry lights low for mood and, of course, anonymity--I’d scared off a trick or two with too-bright porch lights--but he was dressed all in black, adding to the effect. Black jeans, black leather jacket, black knit cap. The jacket and cap were a little much for a mid-June night, I thought. The reflective sunglasses at midnight were also a bit much, but it did complete the ensemble. He looked a little more rough trade than I’m used to, but that’s part of the thrill, really. Invite a stranger to your home in the middle of the night and of course there’s an element of surprise, maybe even danger. I opened the door wide to let him in.

Usually, they step in and past me as I close the door. This one took control immediately. He took the door from me, gently but firmly, closed it himself, and turned the deadbolt. When he turned around, he was unbuckling his belt. In seconds his pants were unzipped and his semi-hard cock was exposed. He leaned against the door, hips thrust forward.

Wouldn’t you like to go to my bed? Or at least the couch? I asked.

Wordlessly, he cupped my face in his hands. All I saw was my own reflection in his glasses, but I could tell he was looking me in the eye. I expected him to kiss me, it was such a gentle gesture, but then his hands slid to my shoulders, insistently pushing me to kneel.

Okay, I said. I see.

So I went to work on him. He responded with a fantastically rigid hardon. I enjoyed him enjoying me. He cupped my head, slowly pushed in all the way and, when I didn’t gag, set up a really nice, slow, fucking rhythm.

Fucking is too rough a word. This was gentle and sensual. Loving. Hot.

My hands roamed his body, up under the black t-shirt he wore beneath his leather jacket. I felt up to his chest, finding only a light dusting of soft hair, but his nipples were sensitive and all I had to do to make his whole body spasm was touch them.

That’s when I saw the writing on his belly. I’d pushed his shirt and jacket far enough to see it, along his waistline. I pulled back to read it.

Remember, o man, that dust thou art.

I looked at him quizzically. He pulled down his shirt and pulled my face back to his crotch. All right, I thought. I spent some time on his balls, loving them with my tongue, before I returned to his dick. Here I let him set the pace he needed to achieve his climax.

He finished with a groan that made his whole body vibrate, as satisfied a sound as I’ve ever had the pleasure of extracting from a man. As I stood, he pulled up his jeans, which had slipped no farther down than mid-thigh. He was zipped and buckled so fast that I thought he would bolt out the door. Instead, he again held my face in his hands, but this time he kissed me deeply, forcefully. He explored my mouth with his tongue and then sucked my tongue into his mouth. It was apparent to me that he liked tasting himself there.

Before he ended the kiss, he pushed open my robe--it was all I was wearing--and his hands explored, grabbing a fistful of chest hair, a nipple, my cock. He dropped to his knees and like everything else, he exhibited an intensity to what he was doing. It’s a cliché, but he was needy, hungry. I sensed a struggle between his urgency and a desire to savor the moment.

When I reached for his head to hold as he had held mine, his hands went to my wrists, pulled my hands away, interlaced our fingers, palm to palm. It passed through my mind that he was afraid I’d remove his sunglasses.

This one’s deep in the closet, I thought.

I didn’t care. He was very good. Had someone seen us, it may have looked like I was trying to dominate him, our hands locked as they were, but there was no subjugation. In fact, he stabilized me, anchored me as I thrust to my own climax. I was able to arch my back as he took me deeply and I never felt off balance. He had me.

Still holding my hands, he stood up. Again, he kissed me, again the exploration, again the sharing of the taste, this time of me. I thought he would break my fingers before he let go. When he did, he pulled my housecoat closed, turned to the door and let himself out in a quick, fluid motion. He was so fast I thought I’d blinked him away. I stared at my door until my breathing returned to normal.

Wow, I whispered.

I went to my computer and immediately pulled up his profile again. I looked at the close-up of the tightly packed jeans. It was his only photo but it had caught my attention. I left him a new message.

Hey, Mr. Dust. Wow, man. That was hot. I’m still smoking. For someone who is dust, you’re mighty juicy. I hope I can have a taste again sometime.

Mr. Dust? I shrugged and decided to leave it. I clicked send.

He didn’t answer that night or the next day. On the third day, his profile was gone.

* * *

I don’t often think about my tricks after the pleasures of the moment. Occasionally, it’s good enough for us to get together a second time, but there’s seldom a spark for a third. If there is, we end up dating for a while, but none of them have lasted more than a few months. One of us eventually gets bored and I’ll admit it’s usually me. I like the freedom and excitement of these temporary, usually anonymous tricks. Even when the longer-term guy was okay with that, I still lost interest. What can I say? I like variety and lots of it.

Mr. Dust, though. He had an intensity that you don’t run across all that often. Intensity with gentleness. So many tricks obviously learned everything they know about sex from porn and the encounter feels like his version of some scene he saw online somewhere. Don’t get me wrong, that can be totally hot, too, but it’s playacting. It’s sexy pretending.

Mr. Dust was present, really doing what he was doing, really into it. He may have been a closet case, but he wasn’t reenacting some scene he’d watched.

And, okay, his tattoo intrigued me. The words were familiar but I couldn’t place them. They were religious, I’m pretty sure, but not being religious myself, I didn’t know their context. Something said at a funeral maybe? Maybe he was a religious closet-case? Or maybe it was from his time as a Goth teenager, something dark and ironic to tattoo on his waistline.

The tattoo stayed with me, but even more, his body, his dick, his mouth. I wouldn’t mind sampling him again. I wanted to hear again the sound he made when he came.

* * *

I work in the forensics lab for the police department, where I professionally gather DNA samples, analyze them, too. Blood, flesh, bone, spit, etc. It had been a slow week and I was at my computer. As I finished up some data entry, I decided to try Googling Mr. Dust’s tattoo. I stared at the search field a moment. What exactly did it say? I started to type when I heard a familiar voice behind me.

Whatcha Googling there, Patti?

Officer Penrod. He’s the only person on the force who didn’t call me Patrick, or at least Pat. He tended to give diminutive names for everyone--Jackie, Pauly, even a Joshy--but because he liked giving me shit about being gay, I always heard it with the feminine I at the end. Patti. If he wasn’t so fucking charming, he wouldn’t get away with it. I have my own play on his name, though.

Officer Bic-Dick, how are you today?

Just fine, Patti. He clapped his big paw on my shoulder and bent over me to see what I was doing. What are you looking for?

Mind you, the guy is a total hot cop porn fantasy. He’s tall, strong, muscly. He could make a nice second income in uniform fetish video. He works it, too. He knows he’s attractive and flirts with anyone who will let him, even though he’s pathologically straight. He can’t pass up any woman who’ll drop her panties for him, which is why he’s on his third wife. Dude needs a woman who is okay with an open