The writings of Oddpoet

My edi­tor walked into my office the other day and asked if I would write a cheap, tawdry piece on sex, the male orgasm specif­i­cally. Of course I refused,



“Bill, I am an artist damn it and I will not sell my soul so you can sell copy!”
“Ed, there is a $500.00 bonus in it for you and I’ll let you fuck my wife.”
“When do you need it Bill?”



There is noth­ing more mis­un­der­stood than the male orgasm. Too much atten­tion has been paid to the female of the species. Any man worth his salt will tell you, if asked, and no chick is around that they “Really don’t give a fuck about it.” And they will go on talk­ing about the Phillies chances of repeat­ing as National league champs.



It all started when that dyke bitch Erica Jung wrote “The Fear of Fly­ing” and this whole mythos devel­oped over the non-issue. Then came the “G” spot, Christ the bull­shit I had to put up with when that came out. Chicks whin­ing, “Find my G spot Eddie, please” One chick got on my nerves so much I took her over my gyne­col­o­gist friend’s office strapped her to the table, pried open her snatch with a two ton hydraulic jack, and then called my Bud, Pete, who works in the power tool sec­tion of Home Depot,

“Pete, I need every power tool you got!”
“ When ya need it Poet?”
“Now!”



So I work the chick over with drills, hole saws, (she really liked the rec­i­p­ro­cat­ing saw) All the time scream­ing, where the fuck is it bitch, this G spot you love so much?”
I believe I proved my point. But, I guess I could have been more sen­si­tive about it. It doesn’t exist, just more cheap arm­chair psy­cho bab­ble that sells books. Yes, I do despair of the species.



The orgasm is an intensely per­sonal expe­ri­ence regard­less of who is expe­ri­enc­ing it. It’s like a team sport where one per­son takes all the glory. I could use my con­sid­er­able poetic metaphoric skills to paint the expe­ri­ence with words but what would be the point? It is what it is.



There is a con­sid­er­able dif­fer­ence between the sexes on post coitus behav­ior. This of course is caused by years of cul­tural imprint­ing. A chick’s need to feel emo­tion­ally attached and that she is not a cheap easy pig that a man just fucked for shits and gig­gles. While a man looks at the chick with barely con­cealed con­tempt and says to him­self, “I can’t believe I just fucked this skank, how do I get rid of it?” Yes, she is like that puppy dog that will not go away, “Shoo Fido, shoo” This is when the love of your life ceases to be a per­son but an object to be aban­doned like a used tooth­brush.



There, it’s out in the open, and about fuck­ing time, I might add. Now a man has sev­eral options at this point, if he is inter­ested in a repeat fuck he will give you a cur­sory hug and say out of char­ac­ter stuff, while he is dress­ing quickly,
Yes, a man will say des­per­ate things just to get out of that bed­room. Unchar­ac­ter­is­tic words like “What do you say we run a marathon honey?” Or “I’m in the mood to go shop­ping babe, what do you say?” Or, God for­bid, “Honey look at the time, if we rush we can catch the last fif­teen min­utes of Oprah” For a man this is indeed a des­per­ate time.



One of the best extri­ca­tion tech­niques I ever heard was from my bud Pete. He would cum, roll over, put his pants on, grab the chicks clothes into a ball throw it at her and say, “Get the fuck out bitch my Girl­friend is com­ing over. “But you said you loved me Petey” “I lied” He then pushed her out the bed­room win­dow. A caveat is in order; this method should only be attempted by trained pro­fes­sion­als.



Being an extra­or­di­nary writer and cul­tural icon I have devel­oped a whole cat­a­log of male extri­ca­tion sce­nar­ios avail­able at my web­site Oddpoetword.com, for men only. I can’t give away all our secretes ladies.



I should write one con­cen­trat­ing on the female expe­ri­ence maybe I can get to fuck Bill’s wife again. But who would read it?

I remain, faith­fully,
The odd­est of Poets…