(NSFW) 150 Shades of Shame: The Best (and Worst) of the Rest

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As those of you who have been following 150 Shades of Shame, our erotic fiction contest, may have noticed, we announced the winners and a selection of honorable mentions this week.

So firstly, let's congratulate First Place winner Saba Bennett ("The Tiki Tryst") and Second Place winners Lucy Lucious ("New Floor") and Monica Friedman ("150 Prosthetics of Every Conceivable Color) for their spectacular entries.

Secondly...man, how about some of those honorable mentions? I mean, it was interesting to learn that our readers not only image we have incredibly interesting sex lives at the Weekly (Katherine Elizabeth Standefer's "2", to which I still must ask, what's with the sparklers?) but that we occasionally get down at the office (Narda Rivera's "Police Dispatch") — plus, there was anthropomorphic plant sex (Tommie Johnson's "Plant Man"), which is always interesting. Depressing in a way, considering our personals haven't had anything that unique in quite some time (damn you, Craigslist!), but still interesting.

But to completely ignore the many, many submissions we had that didn't make the cut would be a disservice to the folks who worked so hard to rub their smut all over the keyboard. So, let's take a look at the folks who missed the cut — and for some, they were truly juuuust off the mark. Each story is presented in its original, unedited form, aside from the occasional title I've hung around their necks.

Oh, and these are all seriously, seriously NSFW. Read in public at your own risk.

Mark Biery, "Letter to the Editor,"


Seven years into his ten-year sentence at the Arizona State Prison in Florence, he still missed his wife terribly. She wrote to him, of course, but anything sexual was blacked out by the prison censors. Newspapers were allowed, though, so she took to using a needle to punch a hole in individual letters of the Tucson Weekly, and mail those to him. Slowly and meticulously, she spelled out fantasies for her incarcerated man.

Saturdays were their "date night." The paper would come in the mail, and over the course of an hour or sometimes two, he would assemble her raunchy thoughts, pin-prick by pin-prick, masturbating lovingly and gently, until his orgasm was spent and the newspaper pages stuck together.

One day, he wrote a letter: "Tucson Weekly, Editor - Dear Sir. You have no idea how much the Tucson Weekly means to me..."




Kola Blau, "...Hungry?"

I could tell she was glaring at me from behind her Chanel sunglasses but the fresh spray tan made the shadows of her face look unfamiliar. Whatever the emotion she was trying to project, it was working. I could feel the blood flowing to my groin. She dropped her bags and pounced, ripping at my belt while biting at the buttons of my shirt. More blood flow. The clothes finally off she slammed her waist against mine wrapping her legs around me. Even more blood flow. I grabbed her soft bronze legs and moved deeper inside of her. Too much blood flow. “Baby…” She looked up at me with disappointment. “Not on my skin, it will ruin the tan!” Too late, I was at the finish line. Sheer panic came over her face as she grabbed at the night stand for a shield. She managed to deflect the last half on the Tucson Weekly newspaper. It landed on the “Chow” section. I looked at her steaming with frustration and asked shyly “Hungry?”



Oggbashan, "Seven Score Words and Ten"

Seven score words and ten?

Sir Roger despaired. So few words for a love letter and yet who could inscribe them fairly on parchment? His clerk wouldn’t. He was celibate and innocent.

Sir Roger couldn’t. He could wield a sword, swing a mean axe, train a warhorse, but had never learned to read and write.

Lady Mary might.

“What do you take me for?” she asked. “A scrivener for the Tucson Weekly? I need payment for such a laborious task.”

Her required payment, in advance, was an hour of cunnilingus followed by a proper Rogering, repeated daily for a week. Paying her bill left Sir Roger weak, his tongue and manhood full sore and limp.

“Why?” Lady Mary asked when Sir Roger dictated the words. “Write a Valentine letter to your mistress? She can’t read. Just fuck her. She’ll get the message.”

Even then, wives had the final word. Fuck.



Nicholas Jones, "Golden Moment"

I could see my grin reflected in her come hither eyes, both of us having abandoned all pretentions of the chase and now squarely moving toward the act. I knew what she wanted but could tell she was a little nervous. I caressed her leg and then moved towards my wine rack, “would you like to drink some of my golden champagne to ease your nerves?” I asked. She moved towards me and with a passionate kiss began to undo my pants. “How about I drink it while you pour it down your abs into my yearning mouth?” I paused for a moment and thought of what a great Savage Love piece this would be in the Tucson Weekly. Her moist lips sucked every drop of Champagne from my throbbing body, her eyes rolling into her head I pushed her to the wall, this would become a weekly affair.



Don Hodunc, "One Date Too Many"

Her boyish figure intrigued me; so trim for a thirty-something. I was dying to get my hands on her. I suggested a game of Tucson Weekly Strip Trivia to break the ice.

“Jim Nintzel!” I said, as if I’d already won. She kicked off her sandals.

“Renee Downing.”

Renee got my Hawaiian shirt. Tom Denehy got her blouse. She was braless; not much there.

“Rand Carlson!”

I pulled off my jeans, sweating now. Who was left? “Stephen Seigel!”

She shimmied out of her denim cutoffs. “Barbara Kingslover!”

“Really?”

“Titan missiles,“ she said, smirking as my love missile popped up out of its Haines silo. Her eyes lit up. “Well?” I was drawing a blank. Her hand slid up my thigh. ”Ready for launch, I see.“

I couldn’t wait. Her mouth did the rest.

Afterwards, when she whispered ”Stacy Richter” and her panties came off, I discovered why she didn’t need a bra.




Julien C, "Killer Ride"

You toss aside last week's Tucson Weekly. He drips water as he wrings his long brown mop. He spatters the pages. He plants one hand against your brawny shoulder. Your thudding shlong meets his panting asshole. His other hand slithers past your ballsack, down your seam, and his fingers plunge into you. Your tongue taunts the gutters in his abs. He told you he got his body surfing. That the board between his legs made him so fucking horny he'd thrust until he came in his shorts. His breath now in the desert is like the ocean, salty, from drinking your cock. His gasping suckhole ascends and you lock sabers, your poles crashing against each other like logs in a swollen river. You grind against each other like bodies on surfboards and drown each other in seas of cum. He laps off your glistening nipples and he says, "Killer ride, bro."



Alex K. "Untitled"
He wet his fingers quickly, stroked his cock, and then entered her. Her pussy felt so tight and his thighs clenched as he picked her up and moved from her to the bed. He kept repeating in his mind "don't over think this, just go with it." Sara's tits made a clapping noise as they slapped together from his thrusts. "It feels so good" he whispered in ear. Robert kissed Sara hard and then finished softly, longingly, much in the same way he hoped to finish their latest sex session. Robert was in disbelief that the personal ad he had placed in the Tucson Weekly actually brought Sara to him; Sara, who had just given him one of the best blowjobs of his life just a couple hours ago. She was stroking his cock while he stared at the tattoo on her hip. “Is that Latin?” He thought.



Vanessa Major, "The Ice Cream Man"
“So here we are again. Funny us meeting like this,” I murmur coyly. “Oh—my hair? You like it up?” I can feel my cheeks flush with excitement for my new lover. He sees through the plain Jane that I portray; he knows my inner Marilyn, dare I say, my inner Jenna? I have waited all day for this and now it’s here; his hands are on me and I’m in ecstasy. Buttons, zippers—it’s all a blur of cotton/poly blends being pulled at so we can feel our warm skin once again become one. I feel that he is as excited as I am. I continue to stroke him as I feel myself moisten, ready for penetration. Eyes closed, I moan his name.
“Linda, Linda... LINDA!”
My eyes open. Annoyed, I wonder who the hell is yelling at me—and why now of all times?
“You’re making a mess.”
“What?” I ask.
My manager, not looking too pleased, stares at me over her copy of the Tucson Weekly. “The ice cream—you’ve been pulling on that handle for awhile now! I told you, if you’re going to make shift manager, you’re going to have to show me you’re serious about working here at Softee Serve. Standing there pulling on that ice cream handle with that far off look on your face certainly doesn't impress me.”



And last, in every sense of the word, Paul Laska, "Magnum Opus"

I.....rubbed.....my.....dong.....I.....rubbed.....my.....dong.....I.....rubbed.....my.....dong.....I.....rubbed.....my.....dong.....I.....rubbed.....my.....dong.....I.....rubbed.....my.....dong.....I.....rubbed.....my.....dong.....I.....rubbed.....my.....dong.....I.....rubbed.....my.....dong.....I.....rubbed.....my.....dong.....I.....rubbed.....my.....dong.....I.....rubbed.....my.....dong.....I.....rubbed.....my.....dong.....I.....rubbed.....my.....dong.....I.....rubbed.....my.....dong.....I.....rubbed.....my.....dong.....I.....rubbed.....my.....dong.....I.....rubbed.....my.....dong.....I.....rubbed.....my.....dong.....I.....rubbed.....my.....dong.....I.....rubbed.....my.....dong.....I.....rubbed.....my.....dong.....I.....rubbed.....my.....dong.....I.....rubbed.....my.....dong.....I.....rubbed.....my.....dong.....I.....rubbed.....my.....dong.....I.....rubbed.....my.....dong.....I.....rubbed.....my.....dong.....I.....rubbed.....my.....dong.....I.....rubbed.....my.....dong.....I...rubbed...my...dong...I...rubbed...my...dong...I.rubbed.my.dong.i.rubbed.my.dong.irubbedmydongirubbedmydongirubbedmydong

Tucson.Weekly



Thanks for entering (over and over and over again,) Tucson. Let's do this again some time.

Your money is on the dresser. Get going.

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