Woods Porn

I'll be straight with you. Normally, I am not a fan of bizzaro fiction. Not that it's not good. Just that, like poetry, I often don't get it.

We're making an exception today, because this piece by MP Johnson restores a little faith. In bizarro, the '70s bush, and the sweet porn 'stache.

Woods Porn by MP Johnson




After school, I ran to the woods, eager to once again unearth that beat-up shoebox filled with centipedes and centerfolds. When I came up empty-handed, I freaked out. I had returned to the same spot every day since my big brother and I discovered the box a week earlier. My bro had scratched “Wienerama!” on the nearest tree with his Swiss army knife, so there was no way was I digging in the wrong place. Had I, amidst the pangs of guilt that overtook me when I finished with the box, forgotten to put it back in the ground last time?

My bro would be pissed if I lost the box. He gets mad at me a lot, like when we first found the box. He’s three years older than me and way smarter, so he shouldn’t get mad that I don’t know as much as him, but he does, and he got really mad then. I had flipped through the sticky, crinkled pages held together by rusty staples and masking tape. When I started to feel funny, I asked my brother why. He told me what guys do to girls, and that I could pretend to do it using my hand while looking at the pictures. I noticed the roll of toilet paper in the box and asked, “And you have to dress up like a mummy to do it?” That’s when he beat me up.

Now, as I frantically searched for the box, I could almost see the boobies. I had a favorite picture: a nearly disintegrated two-page spread with a red-haired woman sitting at a vanity and putting in earrings while her boobs hung out of a black frilly thing. On the other side of the spread, a man with a mega mustache ran at the woman, boner-first like a jumbled-up unicorn. The redhead’s boobies jiggled in my head. Jiggle. Jiggle. Jiggle. Maybe I didn’t even need those grubby old pages.

I rolled onto my back, but before I could pull my pants down, I saw something move in the trees above. At first, I thought it was a squirrel. Then I noticed it had little hands, hands that clutched a certain worm-eaten shoebox. The hands belonged to a little man, clad in a shiny black latex bodysuit and pointy red shoes. Were they high heels? I couldn’t tell, but they made him easy to follow as he fled, leaping from tree to tree.

“Come back here with my boobies!” I yelled.

I hurtled over fallen logs and slapped branches out of the way as I pursued the little man. Was he giggling? Did he enjoy stealing the best thing that had ever happened to me? I was going to get him.

I knew those woods well. Mom and Dad had been sending my bro and me to play in them for as long as I could remember. The little man headed for the part we called Fortland, because it’s where we had built our forts, using rusted out refrigerators as fireplaces and sticks as walls. Some of those forts still stood. It would be the perfect place to intercept the little man.

He continued straight and I took the shortcut to Fortland. When I got there, I climbed up a tree fort made from lumber my bro and me had stolen from a neighbor who was putting in a new garage. On top of the fort, I waited. Sure enough, that little man came right toward me, swinging from branch to branch like a monkey.

His puffy cheeks looked flushed like the men in those magazines. He had a massive carpet sample of a mustache under his button nose, also like the men in those magazines. “Men with big mouth-bangs have big wangs,” my bro had said, and I could see by the bulge in the little man’s bodysuit that was true. What was he? An elf?

Whatever he was, he had something of mine. When he came close, I dove off the fort on top of him, knocking him out of the tree. I wrapped my arms around him and we both fell screaming onto the pile of soggy, insect-infested mattresses my bro and me had jumped onto so many times, pretending to be stuntmen.

The box flew open and the torn-up porno mags scattered like cockroaches, as if they had their own thoughts about where they wanted to go and it wasn’t with either of us. The elf’s bodysuit was like oil. He slipped out of my grasp, hurrying to gather up the well-thumbed pages of Juggalug and Au Naturale.

“Those are mine!” I yelled.

“Yours?” the elf replied. “You think you’re the only one who needs woods porn? You’ve had your turn. Another young boy needs these sweet pages now.”

I kicked the elf in his bulge so hard he flew out of his high heels. Still, he clung to the grimy, shredded magazines. I tried to pry them from his mini fingers, but all I got was a corner with a picture of some lady’s hair-sprayed bangs. No boobies. I scrunched it up and threw it in his face.

Then I grabbed onto the stash again, locking into a vicious tug-of-war with the elf. Grunting and gritting my teeth, I pulled as hard as I could. I was tough, thanks to the beatings my bro dished out, and I was big too, bigger than this elf. Still, he would not relent. How could he be so strong?

Finally, I lost my grip and stumbled backward onto the rotten mattresses.
The elf hopped away, chortling.

As I cursed under my breath, I realized I hadn’t been left empty-handed. In my little paws, I still held one measly magazine. I stared at it, confused.

“What the hell?” I asked the cosmos. “Chicks with Dicks?”

I sighed and unzipped my pants.

“I guess it will have to do.”


MP Johnson’s short stories have appeared in more than 35 publications. His debut book, The After-Life Story of Pork Knuckles Malone, was released in 2013 by Bizarro Pulp Press. His second book, Dungeons and Drag Queens, is due soon from Eraserhead Press. He is the creator of Freak Tension zine, a B-movie extra and an obsessive music fan currently based in Minneapolis. Learn more at www.freaktension.com.