Can a poem be sexy and hilarious? Do people still
dream about Winona Ryder? Is this woman telling the truth, or just being all
metaphorical ‘n’ shit?
I love to masturbate, especially
After a poem of mine’s accepted in
A literary magazine. Shit —
I open up that letter, smile awhile
And think, “This one goes out to Don,
a total
Tool who I temped for in ’89:
Data-mother-f*cking-entry this.”
Who’s got “inappropriate footwear”
now?
People send
Nerve a good many erotica books. Some are sexy, some are funny, some are
downright strange (not that there’s anything wrong with space-alien nooky). We
love literate smut, though you can only stack ‘em so high before you’re facing
an erotica fire-hazard. So in preparation for a big, sexy Housing Works donation, I
was flipping through the stacks (just
counting, I swear), when I stumbled across The Best American
Erotic Poems: From 1800 to the Present. From Winona Ryder, to leeches,
to tittie-shaped spaghetti to Charles Bukowski…here’s a little sampling.
They’re hotter than any screengrab of Jenna Jameson, in my humble opinion.
When a man hasn’t been kissed
by Jeffery
McDaniel
When I
haven’t been kissed in a long time,
I walk
behind well-dressed women
on cold
December mornings and shovel
the steamy
exhalations pluming from their lips
down my
throat with both hands, hoping
a single
molecule will cling to my lungs.
I sneak
into the ladies’ room of a fancy
Restaurant,
dig in the trashcan for a napkin
where a
woman checked her lipstick,
then go
home, light candles, put on Barry White,
and gently
press the napkin all over my body.
I think
leeches are the most romantic creatures
because all
they want to do is kiss. If only
someone
invented a kinder, gentler leech,
I’d paint
it bright pink and pretend
Winona
Ryder’s lips crawled off her face,
up my
thigh, and were sucking on my swollen
bicep. When
I haven’t been kissed,
I create
civil disturbances, then insult
the cops
who show up, till one grabs me
by the
collar and hurls me against the squad car,
so I can
remember, at least for a moment,
what it’s
like to be touched.
(2002)
Another Motive for Metaphor
by Jennifer
L. Knox
I love to
masturbate, especially
After a
poem of mine’s accepted in
A literary
magazine. Shit —
I open up
that letter, smile awhile
And think,
“This one goes out to Don, a total
Tool who I
temped for in ’89:
Data-mother-fucking-entry
this.”
Who’s got
“inappropriate footwear” now?
“The
inappropriate footwear’s on the other
Foot today,
you hick,” I tell him, tell
Them all,
as, lifting up my shirt, I notice
Nipples!
Mine (O, gorgeous areolas! —
Pink as
peonies)! And ass (my bouncy
Pony,
prance in skintight smarty-pants!)!
(2005)
Dinner at George & Katie
Schneeman’s
by Ted
Berrigan
She was
pretty swacked by the time she
Put the
spaghetti & meatballs into the orgy pasta
Bowl — There was mixed salt &
pepper in the
“Tittie-tweak”
pasta bowl — We drank some dago red
from glaxed girlie demi-tasse cups —
after
which we
engaged in heterosexual intercourse, mutual
masturbation, fellatio, &
cunnilingus. For
dessert we
stared at a cupboard full of art critic
friends, sgraffitoed into underglaze
on vases. We did
have a very
nice time.
(1982)
Conjugal
by Russell
Edson
A man is
bending his wife.
He is
bending her around something that she has bent herself
Around. She
is around it, bent as he has bent her.
He is
convincing her. It is all so private.
He is
bending her around the bedpost. No, he is bending her around
the tripod
of his camera. It is as if he teaches her to swim. As if he teaches acrobatics.
As if he could form her into something wet that he delivers out of one life
into another.
And it is
such a private thing the thing they do.
He is
forming her into the wallpaper. He is smoothing her down into the flowers
there. He is finding her nipples there. And he is kissing her pubis there.
He climbs
into the wallpaper among the flowers. And his buttocks move in and out of the
wall.
(1976)
Their Sex Life
by A.R.
Ammons
One failure
on
Top of
another
(1990)
Hunk of Rock
by Charles
Bukowski
Nina was
the hardest of them
all,
the worst
woman I had known
up to that
moment
and I was
sitting in front of
my
secondhand black and white
tv
watching
the news
when I
heard a suspicious
sound in
the kitchen
and I ran
out there
and saw her
with
a full
bottle of whiskey —
a 5th —
and she had
it and
was headed
for the back porch
door
but I
caught her and
grabbed at
the bottle.
“give me
that bottle, you
fucking
whore!”
and we
wrestled for the
bottle
and let me
tell you
she gave me
a good fight
for it
but
I got it
away from her
and I told
her to
get her ass
out of
there.
she lived
in the same place
in the back
upstairs.
I locked
the door
took the
bottle and a
glass
went out to
the couch
sat down
and
opened the
bottle and
poured
myself a good
one.
I shut off
the tv and
sat there
thinking
about what a
hard number
Nina was.
I came up
with
at least
a dozen
lousy things
she had
done
to me.
what a
whore.
what a hunk
of rock.
I sat there
drinking
the whiskey
and
wondering
what I was
doing
with Nina.
then there
was a
knock on
the
door.
It was
Nina’s friend,
Helga.
“where’s
Nina?”
she asked.
“she tried
to steal
my whiskey,
I
ran her ass
out of
here.”
“she said
to meet
her here.”
“what for?”
“she said
me and her
were going
to do it
in front of
you
for $50.”
“$25.”
“she said
$50.”
“well,
she’s not
here…want a
drink?”
“sure…”
I got Helga
a glass
poured her
a
whiskey.
she took a
hit.
“maybe,”
she said,
“I ought to
go get
Nina.”
“I don’t
want to see
her.”
“why not?”
“she’s a
whore.”
Helga
finished her
drink and I
poured
her
another.
she took a
hit.
“Benny
calls me a
whore, I’m
no
whore.”
Benny was
the guy
she was
shacked
with.
“I know
you’re no
whore,
Helga.”
“thanks.
Ain’t ya got no
music?”
“just the
radio…”
she saw it
got up
turned it
on.
some music
came
blaring
out.
Helga began
to
dance
holding her
whiskey
glass in
one
hand.
she wasn’t
a good
dancer
she looked
ridiculous.
she stopped
drained her
drink
rolled her
glass along the
rug
then ran
toward
me
dropped to
her knees
unzipped me
and then
she was
down
there
doing
tricks.
I drained
my
drink
poured
another.
she was
good.
she had a
college
degree
some place
back
East.
“get it,
Helga, get
it!”
there was a
loud
knock
on the
front
door.
“HANK, IS
HELGA
THERE?”
“WHO?”
“HELGA!”
“JUST A
MINUTE!”
“THIS IS
NINA, I WAS
SUPPOSED TO
MEET
HELGA HERE,
WE HAVE A
LITTLE
SURPRISE FOR
YOU!”
“YOU TRIED
TO STEAL
MY WHISKEY,
YOU
WHORE!”
“HANK, LET
ME
IN!”
“get it,
Helga, get
it!”
“HANK!”
“Helga, you
fucking whore…
Helga!
Helga! Helga!”
I pulled
away and
got up.
“let her
in.”
I went to
the
bathroom.
when I came
out they
were both
sitting there
drinking
and smoking
laughing
about
something.
then they
saw me.
“50 bucks,”
said Nina.
“25 bucks,”
I said.
“we won’t
do it
then.”
“don’t
then.”
Nina
inhaled
exhaled.
“all right,
you
cheap
bastard, 25
bucks!”
Nina stood
up and
began
taking her
clothes
off.
she was the
hardest
of them
all.
Helga stood
up and
began
taking her
clothes
off.
I poured a
drink.
“sometimes
I wonder
what the
hell is
going on
around
here,” I
said.
“don’t
worry about
it, Daddy,
just
get with
it!”
“just what
am I
supposed to
do?”
“just do
whatever the
fuck
you feel
like
doing,”
said Nina
her big ass
blazing
in the
lamplight.
(1992)
Buy the Best American Erotic Poetry here.
Speaking of
Bukowski, what serendipity! Nerve photoblogger
Autumn had some deep thoughts on the dude, in a recent
post:
I'll bet that at least half of Bukowski's women faked their orgasms.
4/8/2008 7:30:00 AM
"unrelated half-naked girl on a pool
table."
"I love women that get a specific and sincere pleasure out of
faking their orgasms, where the acting gives them a different kind of high. I
dreamed last night that Bukowski's redhead resurfaced and made a public
statement that she faked her orgasms and none of his books were true, and that
he was an asshole. This wasn't news to anyone and everyone wondered why she was
on tv in the first place. I think she was on David Letterman, or maybe she was
on Jo Soares.
In other news, I'm a bad pool player. I have a tendency to
smack the balls too hard."
