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**PRINT: COLD WAS THE GROUND, by Chicago's Scott Stealey, is No. 34 in our broadsheet series. Gina, protagonist, a rather lonely condo dweller/office manager, strikes up a fleeting friendship with one Porgo, an Eastern European construction worker who is burying on her property what Gina takes for a time capsule. But the metaphorical fix is in -- Porgo, an ESL student, may be leading Gina in directions she canít exactly get her head all the way around. Enjoy. Chicago writer Stealey is editor of the Please Donít online mag.

**WEB: JUST THIS ONCE Glen Binger
CRUISING Eric Sasson
A PROTAGONIST READS THE UP-TOP DESCRIPTION OF HIS OR HER OWN LIFE Matthew Brian Cohen
DOGS ON A PLANE Todd Dills
ANARCHIST CLOWNS STOLE MY MONEY Patrick Wensink
WING & FLY: Bubbling up in Nashville, gassing it to Chicago | Todd Dills
KETCHUP AND MUSTARD Katie Ziolkowski
CHARLIE's TRAIN a novella by Heather Palmer
HIDEOUS BOUNTY: THE FRONTIERSMEN | Andrew Davis


JUST THIS ONCE
---
Glen Binger

Binger runs the ezine 50 to 1. He is a member of The Broad Set Writing Collective and hails from a quiet beach town in New Jersey. His work has been seen in various print and online publications. See more at his blog.

Seth Rogen sat on the edge of his unmade bed late last night in wallowing depression. The privacy of even his Los Angeles home held no barrier to the inferiority of the film industry's haunting associations. Even through his recent success and ability to play a role in most upcoming entertainment outputs, he still had no control over the despair that filled his semi-well being.

He wasn't about to cry or contemplate suicide. He was simply upset. One of his plain white pillows was stuffed between his legs as the television's soft glow reminded him of the shortage of sex in his recent existence. It was disappointing. Sure, he was a simple, pot-smoking film producer and had many legitimate grounds as to why girls should want to sleep with him, but for some reason for the past few months there were no women passing through his life. It made him feel empty. Seth liked to blame it on his busy schedule, but deep down inside he knew it wasn't that. It was his attitude toward the whole situation. The only thing he could imagine doing to solve the dilemma was immediately decided against due to the fact that he didn't feel like getting his hands dirty. Plus, he was out of tissues.

Bohemian Pupil Press, Chicago publishers of the South Side Trilogy

The pillow was cold yet welcoming in the humid late-night air. It felt refreshingly smooth smothered between his hairy thighs. It felt like the velvet texture of a woman's freshly cleaned skin. He quickly compared the feeling to the ecstasy of sex but turned away in disgust at the thought of sticking his penis into a pillow. Then he turned back toward the pillow, one eyebrow raised. Again, he faced away and threw pillow back to the head of the bed.

"No, not that desperate," he whispered to the floor.

The floor seemed to murmur back, "Stop being picky." But he brushed the lingering voice off, wishing he could get the image out of his head. He shouldn't have to even contemplate what a pillow would feel like against his thrusting hips; he was a celebrity.

A Girls Gone Wild commercial came on, its volume somehow louder than that of other commercials. Seth stared intently at the radiance of the barely legal naked women on the television, and the second the ad ended he took one of the deepest sighs he has ever taken. He didn't know why the sexual thoughts wouldn't go away, as much as he wanted them too. He sighed again. There seemed to be nothing he could do. But then he glanced back at the pillow; which had flopped down, parallel with the other pillows.

He took his thick-framed glasses off. "Just this once," he nodded.

Seth Rogen stood up, walked to his open door and closed it, quickly locking it. He placed his hands on his hips and smirked, tilting his head. It was dark, but he was feeling frisky -- he clapped twice and a dim light came on from the far corner of the bedroom. A tingle grew between the upper parts of his legs, a tingle he hadn't felt in months.

"Don't worry, baby. I'll be gentle," he giggled to himself as he shuffled back toward his bed.

He calmly gripped the silky white pillow and slid it down to the end of his bed. The combined glow of the dim light and the television almost formed a shadow that resembled a living creature, but Seth did not care. He was ready. He pulled his underwear down to his ankles, leaving his shirt on, and mounted the innocence of what was a once delicate, cranium sleepwear accessory.



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