The writings of Oddpoet

So I get a text mes­sage from this chick I was fuck­ing a while back. I know, I know I should say a chick I was in love with but the truth demands it’s place. Look­ing back or In ret­ro­spect I am able to piece together what went on in all my failed rela­tion­ships. Sorta like a recap, Dur­ing the event there is all that emo­tional want and need shit going down and it’s hard to sort it out. Look­ing back you come to real­ize you were just fuck­ing her. Which is about 99.9% of my rela­tion­ships which should tell you why they failed.

So she texts me and says it’s over. WTF?

“Yea, sorta fig­ured that out since I have not seen you in a year’
“I mean it this time’
“No doubt dar­ling your are drip­ping sin­cer­ity’
“I’m dying, but you don’t care, I’m dead to you already.’

Insert groan here.
Oh fuck, here comes the “I’m dying” bit

So I bite.
“That’s a shame hon, can I have your dog?”

“You cock­sucker’
“I mean it I have an STD”

This is where the strobes start flash­ing and the Phil­har­monic starts play­ing “Mephistopheles”

“you have what?”

“Do I have your attention?”

“Undi­vided”

Now I know this chick’s head and I always labeled her “sus­pect” That’s a term I reserve for chicks who you feel might be sling­ing pussy behind your back. Ya know sorta of a Kmart ver­sion of a Blue light pussy spe­cial.
“Atten­tion Kmart shop­pers, Chris­tine is sling­ing some major taco in aisle four”

Just a feel­ing I had with her. Prior to hav­ing sex she started to feel me out with ques­tions like “are you kinky?‘
She was never sub­tle. I told her the truth I could roll any­way she wanted. She was the atyp­i­cal sex­u­ally frus­trated mar­ried woman who was dying to ful­fill some major fan­tasy. She came to the right place.

So the big day arrives and she comes in with a duf­fel bag that looked like it weighed about three hun­dred pounds. I empty the fucker on the bed and tell her,
“Babe, if I pulled a McGuyver here I think I could build a minia­ture nuclear weapon. No shit, there were butt plugs, dil­dos, vibra­tors, lubes, cock rings, restraints, leather masks (WTF?) I wanted to have a sword fight with this huge black dildo, I hid that fucker under the bed. No fuck­ing way!  There was even a vibra­tor that dou­bled as an AM/FM radio and a GPS unit.

She undresses and lays on the bed and I have my choice of weapons. Being the bizarre fuck I am an image of the three Stooges comes into my head the one with them in the oper­at­ing room, “Scapel…check…Forceps…check…Dildo…check…

So I chose restraints, a blind fold and a large feather. I fig­ured any poor fuck could ham­mer her with a dildo it takes an artist to use a feather. I did and it was great. Once you get into it, it’s amaz­ing what you can do with a feather, restraints, a blind fold and some timely lightly blow­ing breaths. No lie, She was hands down the best sex­ual part­ner I ever had. I swear we did it for hours, it was insane, I would fuck her, whip out a toy, work it, fuck her again. Man could she come and the crème de la crème?: she was a squirter. Yea, my first. I was work­ing the cli­max and plop my face is sud­denly drip­ping with pre­cious bod­ily flu­ids. I was like, “Did she just piss in my face?” I recov­ered and real­ized but your first squirter will throw you for a loop.

One would think the rela­tion­ship was des­tined for great­ness but sex only goes so far; Then you have to talk to them. Ah, theres the rub, I have never fig­ured out how to bypass that whole talk­ing to them thingy. When I do men will be knock­ing down my door. “Odd­poet did what?” “Bypassed the whole talk­ing to them thingy?” “That fucker is my hero.”

But… we started talk­ing, got into a hel­la­cious fight. She puts this Coun­try music sta­tion on I asked her to turn it off, She said “deal with it” I did by rip­ping the radio out of the dash­board and throw­ing it into the street. Ya know typ­i­cal lover’s quar­rel. I do miss the sex.

Turns out she was not dying from an STD, I guess she just wanted to break my balls one last time for old times sake.

Oh well…

I’m gonna have to write about Deb­bie, the one that got away. Yea, I left her for my wife. I always did things ass backwards.