The writings of Oddpoet

I like shiny things, I'm very superficial.

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…

Tomb­stone grey eyes

Gives lie to her fuck me crayon red lips

Oval shaped

Invit­ing

Prac­ticed

Her mouth’s Invi­ta­tion pursed expectantly

Quiv­er­ing tongue glistening

A viper poised to strike death

But those eyes

Those damn eyes…

I am Immersed in soft bil­lowy clouds Of ivory col­ored passion

Enfolded in the soft­ness of Rita

I whis­per

A child­ish sigh

The world is reduced

Absorbed

Into heat and flesh

Chore­o­graphed moans

March­ing across ancient battlefields

Barely breath­ing

Drift­ing between space and time

I’m in love again

She is an opium induced dream

Her mor­phine coated lips

Adds sweet­ness to pur­chased pleasure

Entreat­ing forgetfulness

Nerves scream and vibrate

As Apollo works his lyre

Her vac­u­ous tomb­stone eyes

Rain a sin­gle tear

Lost…

Again…

In the soft­ness of Rita

I return from…

That whirlpool

ris­ing From

Another time…

Another place…

Her soft smile knew my need

I’m in love again

Trem­bling

I ask her

“Do you love me?”

Exhaled cig­a­rette smoke blinds me

” yes

Always, love…

Always…”

I believe her

But those eyes…

Those damn eyes

As you no doubt do not know, I have been through a divorce where­upon I lost my house and every­thing I worked for all my life. That will be the sub­ject of a future post. But for now, let us exam­ine sex and desperation

I was mar­ried, which by def­i­n­i­tion meant I was not get­ting sex from my sig­nif­i­cant other. I was required to employ the ser­vices of a pros­ti­tute. Now some of you might cringe and say: “Dis­ease! Dis­ease!” Never fear, I would do the Odd­poet Babe Check. I would open the door upon hear­ing the knock and, ”Okay, she has two legs, check”; “let’s see, no vis­i­ble scabs on her face, good, very good.”; “Honey, roll up your sleeves,” no vis­i­ble track marks, “Come on in babe!”

My sec­ond choice for sex would be a Bar, Women there are usu­ally:
1.Of ques­tion­able moral char­ac­ter
2.Drunk
3.Desperate
When I was younger, I would prey upon Women in bars, sure as shit between 12:30 and 2:00 AM a few would either fall off bar stools or their nog­gin would slam against the bar passed out. I would imme­di­ately swoop in like a vul­ture on carrion.

Well I had fun, they did not remem­ber. This, of course, worked out for both par­ties. We did not have to do that stu­pid phone num­ber thing. Ladies we never call.

Alas, since I have no shekels I am forced into the ulti­mate humil­i­a­tion: Dat­ing want ads. How far have mighty fallen. What fol­lows are things you do not want to say in your ads:

“Look­ing for my Knight in shin­ing armor”
First of all I do not shine my shoes let alone armor. Sec­ond, I do not have any frig­gin armor. Please!

“Look­ing for my soul mate”
Well not sure I have a soul and if I did it would an ethe­real, spir­i­tual entity not remotely inter­ested in exchang­ing pre­cious bod­ily flu­ids! That’s a loser girls.

“Look­ing for Mr. Right”
This is a sure fire way to have your ad passed over. When men see that alarms go off, “Shit! She will want to change me into her “ideal man.” Pretty soon she will have me watch­ing Liza Min­nelli movies.” Don’t work Ladies!

What does work? Briefly:

“I swal­low”
Top of the list! Of course you run the risk of being con­sid­ered a slut, but you will never lack male com­pan­ion­ship. Like every­thing in life it’s a trade off.

“I love to drink but I can’t hold my liquor.”
Highly rec­om­mended, It has two advan­tages, first men dig that, sec­ond, you can engage in all types of obscene behav­ior and who can blame you! Shit, if you’re drunk. It’s kind of like a get out of jail free card.

Lastly,
“I am a widow whose hus­band left a whole lot of money, look­ing for one night stands.”
Very good one.

Hope this helps; I will be explor­ing this topic in the future. In the inter­est of soci­o­log­i­cal research, of course.

Till Then,
Humbly I remain,
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.

So I am at the Had­don­field Speed line’s park­ing lot and this chick has my dick in her mouth. I’m wax­ing philo­soph­i­cal watch­ing the social insects scurry to their next task.

“I won­der what my future ex-wife is mak­ing for dinner.”

My future ex-girlfriend looks up with fawn­ing eyes and asks “How is it?”

I blurt out “Meatloaf!”

What?

“Don’t talk with your mouth full!”

I love that line when I’m get­ting a blowjob and I never miss an oppor­tu­nity to use it, much to the dis­may of the blower. It is a bad blowjob. There are two schools of thought on “The Blowjob” One states: “there is no such thing as a bad blowjob”, the other, is the dialec­tic antithe­sis of the first pos­tu­late, “There is! because I have been the recip­i­ent of far too many”

I won­der if it would be push­ing things if I left a “How too” Blowjob sex video on the front seat when she drops me off around the cor­ner from my future ex-house.

My mind wan­ders back to the tableau before me and I start count­ing the insects who are wear­ing sneaks. Footwear was never a big deal to me but when you’re get­ting a bad blowjob, well, Ya got to think of some­thing besides meatloaf.

So I have a pop­u­la­tion sam­ple of about 200 insects and a 45% sneaker wear­ing rate with a stan­dard devi­a­tion of about .5.

“Moan”… “Moan”

Oh yea, I’m drop­ping a few well placed moans for the chick’s ego stroke. You can never tell a chick that she gives bad blowjobs; in fact you can never tell a chick any­thing neg­a­tive because they take that shit per­sonal. A babe can tell a man he sucks at eat­ing pussy and the dude could care less. Okay, he might say: “Wash that stench pit and maybe then I could take off my res­pi­ra­tor and actu­ally eat it Bitch!” But that would be it. He’ll go back to count­ing sneak­ers or think­ing of meat­loaf, whatever.

Now if you tell a chick that shit she would plot your emo­tional destruc­tion. Chicks are the Han­ni­bal Lecters of emo­tional manip­u­la­tion and ulti­mate mind fuck. Yea, you’re pretty well doomed when you piss a chick off.

She comes up for air and I could tell she was about to say some­thing stu­pid like: “I love you”

I don’t give her the chance.

I push her head back down on my rod: “Don’t talk with your mouth full.”

Back to the sneak­ers, I think I’m on to some­thing, I’m pretty sure I’m close to a Uni­ver­sal Truth. Uni­ver­sal Truths have been fuck­ing with my head ever since I was a kid. I can never nail the suckers.

I’m always danc­ing around the edges.

She gets up and smiles… I smile back. I won­der if our smiles are real smiles. I won­der if I am danc­ing around another Uni­ver­sal Truth.

“Have to get home babe, I have to cook for my future ex-Husband and my gay son is home from school.”

She starts her car and holds my hand dur­ing the short trip. She is squeez­ing my hand like a tea bag try­ing to get as much of my essence as she can.

“Call me Babe!”

I promised I would.

As I get out of her car an old lady shakes her head.

She knows I’m sling­ing dick.

I notice how disheveled the cor­ner prop­erty is since the pre­vi­ous owner got busted for insur­ance fraud.

I turn the cor­ner and my future old lady is walk­ing my future ex-dog argu­ing with my future ex-Son

Some­thing about beer money.

She sees me.

Her smile is a dis­guised wince; she knows I’m sling­ing dick too.

“What do you want for dinner?”

“Meat­loaf “I blurt out.

I walk up my future ex-driveway,

I’m pretty sure there is a Uni­ver­sal Truth here; I’m always danc­ing around the edges.