In the computer lab, she sat next

Creative Forums Creative Writing
1

Lick all up and down her spine
Roughly tear off her clothes
Like a beast of a man let out of his cage
Break apart her bra and slam her against
The couch licking all the way down to her
Beautiful black bush through her panties
Biting and salivating through 'em
French-kissing her brazen brown lips
Licking and splicking against her gates
Racing up her skin past her breasts
Rubbing hot hard crotch against her body
Shattering fractals by fragmenting fractions
Massaging her lips with my lips
Grabing her steaming hot bulbs
Insanely squeeze those hot bulbs
Twisting her nipples as she screams
“Rip off my panties!”

2

It reads well, I suppose. Although, sex poetry is something that just about anyone can write.

I might be a little bias because I hate sex poetry though, so hopefully someone else will have something to say about it.

3

Hey Underground Man,

I actually read this three times…very objectively I might add (don’t ask me how 8-[ )…trying to figure ^it out.

You may have been in the throes of passion when you wrote it :wink: only kidding …I know that a writer is capable of writing something like this and being objective and dispassionate about it, though they are still passionate about their writing itself. I don’t have much experience with this kind of poetry. It isn’t quite clear here whether this girl is being raped or if it is consensual…okay, on second thought, certain lines seem to point to “consensual”. Perhaps you are subconsciously looking for a date in here. :laughing: :laughing: (I say this gently and nonjudgmently). Again, only kidding, teasing you, really. The thought actually did occur to me that it might be a good passage to keep to put in a book you might be writing.

I have read many fiction books that were extremely interesting, historical, etc., and for the most part, were NOT sexual, but now and again, you might come across a passage like this. It is after all, real life, and the spice of life. :blush:

One other thing I noticed, for the most part, you kept the flow of it, as far as the action verbs…using “ing” after the verbs. When you didn’t use “ing”, the flow of it seemed to stop…I almost had the sense that maybe the man was “thinking” of doing these things to someone, but not actually “doing” them. Perhaps, actually it is just a fantasy while sitting next to her in the computer lab. Perhaps if he has his seat changed, he won’t experience those primitive pheromones. ](*,)

Aside from that I am not sure what to make of it. :unamused: Oh, and by the way, would there be a “couch” in the computer lab? And I certainly hope responding to this doesn’t ruin my reputation on this forum. :laughing: :laughing: :laughing: :laughing: Only kidding. Only kidding.

4

Sounds like you were giving some girl a chinese-burn whilst simultaneously changing her light-bulbs.

Scary. I’d have just shagged her or something. But hey, whatever rubs your rope.

5

nice euphemisms

-Imp

6

Possibly the best line of the poem.

7

Thanks for the responses everyone.

ar,

It would be kind of hard to write this if I was in the actual process of acting it out. And believe me, there was nothing dispassionate about writing it – I was very much in the ‘throws of passion.’ I haven’t experienced that intensity of divinely primitive passion in a very long time.

Now, I wasn’t sure how to fix the rhythmic problems of the poem, as I hate action verbs conjugated with ‘ing,’ especially so excessively. I think it is bad writing to do so, especially repetitiously. However, considering that the shift, though breaking a bad, monotonous rhythm, helped you realize that this was all a fantasy of the speaker about a girl he was sitting next to, it accomplished what it was designed to do.

I’ve done a little tweaking around the edges and have hopefully trimmed the bush, rhythmically, as best as I could.

pav,

I don’t think anyone can write sex-poetry, at least, good sex-poetry, which this may or may not be. If it got anyone hot and excited and they went out and romped their wife or girlfriend in a mad bestial heat, intoxicated by something beautifully primitive and raw, then I’d say it was good. If that didn’t happen, well, fuck. Though I personally like the math line in a sexual context.

tab,

You’re hilarious as always. This girl’s boobs are humble, so as not to be confused with mountains, as Shakira would say, so bulbs were the perfect fit. And I had the pleasure of giving her a Chinese-burn in the past (what the hell is that?) so I know all too well how hot these bulbs heat up.

I have a feeling Imp isn’t referring to the poem, so no comment from me.

Aj,

^^

Whatever this poem did or didn’t do to the larger public, I can testify that at least I got the bulbs brushed against me after she read it, though unfortunately, not laid, as I screwed-up that part of our relationship for good a long time ago.

8

What is good sex poetry? Is there such an animal?

I’m sorry, I know I’m being closed-minded about the whole sex poetry thing, I should probably have kept my comments to myself with the exception of, “It reads well.”

As far as mad bestial heats as a result of being intoxicated by something beautifully primitive and raw goes, I am not a fan of primitive or raw things.

9

You ought to try it sometime, the raw and the primitive is surprisingly close the divine and the holy in the proper context with the right formula.

I would say the following poems by e.e. cummings are some.

i like my body when it is with your
body. It is so quite a new thing.
Muscles better and nerves more.
i like your body. i like what it does,
i like its hows. i like to feel the spine
of your body and its bones, and the trembling
-firm-smooth ness and which i will
again and again and again
kiss, i like kissing this and that of you,
i like, slowly stroking the, shocking fuzz
of your electric fur, and what-is-it comes
over parting flesh . . . . And eyes big love-crumbs,

and possibly i like the thrill

of under me you quite so new

between the breasts

between the breasts

of bestial
Marj lie large
men who praise

Marj’s cleancornered strokable
body these men’s
fingers toss trunks
shuffle sacks spin kegs they

curl
loving
around
beers

the world has
these men’s hands but their
bodies big and boozing
belong to

Marj
the greenslim purse of whose
face opens
on a fatgold

grin
hooray
hoorah for the large
men who lie

between the breasts
of bestial Marj
for the strong men
who

sleep between the legs of Lil

Here’s a lovey-dovey sonnet type which may be more up your alley.

my girl’s tall with hard long eyes

my girl’s tall with hard long eyes
as she stands, with her long hard hands keeping
silence on her dress, good for sleeping
is her long hard body filled with surprise
like a white shocking wire, when she smiles
a hard long smile it sometimes makes
gaily go clean through me tickling aches,
and the weak noise of her eyes easily files
my impatience to an edge–my girl’s tall
and taut, with thin legs just like a vine
that’s spent all of its life on a garden-wall,
and is going to die. When we grimly go to bed
with these legs she begins to heave and twine
about me, and to kiss my face and head.

10

Here is a not so obvious poem loaded with sex, as is a lot of top literature, though not entirely about sex, the metaphors do tend to generally skip right over the heads of most virgin school-children.

The Lady of Shalott
by Alfred, Lord Tennyson

On either side the river lie
Long fields of barley and of rye,
That clothe the world and meet the sky;
And through the field the road run by
To many-tower’d Camelot;
And up and down the people go,
Gazing where the lilies blow
Round an island there below,
The island of Shalott.

Willows whiten, aspens quiver,
Little breezes dusk and shiver
Through the wave that runs for ever
By the island in the river
Flowing down to Camelot.
Four grey walls, and four grey towers,
Overlook a space of flowers,
And the silent isle imbowers
The Lady of Shalott.

By the margin, willow veil’d,
Slide the heavy barges trail’d
By slow horses; and unhail’d
The shallop flitteth silken-sail’d
Skimming down to Camelot:
But who hath seen her wave her hand?
Or at the casement seen her stand?
Or is she known in all the land,
The Lady of Shalott?

Only reapers, reaping early,
In among the bearded barley
Hear a song that echoes cheerly
From the river winding clearly;
Down to tower’d Camelot;
And by the moon the reaper weary,
Piling sheaves in uplands airy,
Listening, whispers, " 'Tis the fairy
The Lady of Shalott."

There she weaves by night and day
A magic web with colours gay.
She has heard a whisper say,
A curse is on her if she stay
To look down to Camelot.
She knows not what the curse may be,
And so she weaveth steadily,
And little other care hath she,
The Lady of Shalott.

And moving through a mirror clear
That hangs before her all the year,
Shadows of the world appear.
There she sees the highway near
Winding down to Camelot;
There the river eddy whirls,
And there the surly village churls,
And the red cloaks of market girls
Pass onward from Shalott.

Sometimes a troop of damsels glad,
An abbot on an ambling pad,
Sometimes a curly shepherd lad,
Or long-hair’d page in crimson clad
Goes by to tower’d Camelot;
And sometimes through the mirror blue
The knights come riding two and two.
She hath no loyal Knight and true,
The Lady of Shalott.

But in her web she still delights
To weave the mirror’s magic sights,
For often through the silent nights
A funeral, with plumes and lights
And music, went to Camelot;
Or when the Moon was overhead,
Came two young lovers lately wed.
“I am half sick of shadows,” said
The Lady of Shalott.

A bow-shot from her bower-eaves,
He rode between the barley sheaves,
The sun came dazzling thro’ the leaves,
And flamed upon the brazen greaves
Of bold Sir Lancelot.
A red-cross knight for ever kneel’d
To a lady in his shield,
That sparkled on the yellow field,
Beside remote Shalott.

The gemmy bridle glitter’d free,
Like to some branch of stars we see
Hung in the golden Galaxy.
The bridle bells rang merrily
As he rode down to Camelot:
And from his blazon’d baldric slung
A mighty silver bugle hung,
And as he rode his armor rung
Beside remote Shalott.

All in the blue unclouded weather
Thick-jewell’d shone the saddle-leather,
The helmet and the helmet-feather
Burn’d like one burning flame together,
As he rode down to Camelot.
As often thro’ the purple night,
Below the starry clusters bright,
Some bearded meteor, burning bright,
Moves over still Shalott.

His broad clear brow in sunlight glow’d;
On burnish’d hooves his war-horse trode;
From underneath his helmet flow’d
His coal-black curls as on he rode,
As he rode down to Camelot.
From the bank and from the river
He flashed into the crystal mirror,
“Tirra lirra,” by the river
Sang Sir Lancelot.

She left the web, she left the loom,
She made three paces through the room,
She saw the water-lily bloom,
She saw the helmet and the plume,
She look’d down to Camelot.
Out flew the web and floated wide;
The mirror crack’d from side to side;
“The curse is come upon me,” cried
The Lady of Shalott.

In the stormy east-wind straining,
The pale yellow woods were waning,
The broad stream in his banks complaining.
Heavily the low sky raining
Over tower’d Camelot;
Down she came and found a boat
Beneath a willow left afloat,
And around about the prow she wrote
The Lady of Shalott.

And down the river’s dim expanse
Like some bold seer in a trance,
Seeing all his own mischance –
With a glassy countenance
Did she look to Camelot.
And at the closing of the day
She loosed the chain, and down she lay;
The broad stream bore her far away,
The Lady of Shalott.

Lying, robed in snowy white
That loosely flew to left and right –
The leaves upon her falling light –
Thro’ the noises of the night,
She floated down to Camelot:
And as the boat-head wound along
The willowy hills and fields among,
They heard her singing her last song,
The Lady of Shalott.

Heard a carol, mournful, holy,
Chanted loudly, chanted lowly,
Till her blood was frozen slowly,
And her eyes were darkened wholly,
Turn’d to tower’d Camelot.
For ere she reach’d upon the tide
The first house by the water-side,
Singing in her song she died,
The Lady of Shalott.

Under tower and balcony,
By garden-wall and gallery,
A gleaming shape she floated by,
Dead-pale between the houses high,
Silent into Camelot.
Out upon the wharfs they came,
Knight and Burgher, Lord and Dame,
And around the prow they read her name,
The Lady of Shalott.

Who is this? And what is here?
And in the lighted palace near
Died the sound of royal cheer;
And they crossed themselves for fear,
All the Knights at Camelot;
But Lancelot mused a little space
He said, “She has a lovely face;
God in his mercy lend her grace,
The Lady of Shalott.”

Bet you didn’t think that was about losing virginity?

11

Here is a pretty funny contemporary one I just found.

When Tantric Sex Gets Ugly

I’m not sure what “tantric sex” means
but I think a finger goes up your butt.

“Tantric sex” seems to be reserved for people
who went on vacation for a week
at a Medieval Times restaurant
in Sedona, AZ,
with a large dwarf named Bruno.
In other words,
the redheaded stepchildren
of the fly kingdom.

When I get angry, it’s ugly.
When Gurdjieff gets angry,
it’s “tantric sex.”
At least that’s what P. Diddy told me.
I might consider tantric sex with Sting,
or any guy who’s lovin’ himself
more than he’s lovin’ me.
Yeeeah . . .

Guess what?
I WAS A TANTRIC SEX SLAVE
FOR A SENIOR TIBETAN BUDDHIST MONK
screeching at the Tibetans to GET OUT OF CANADA.
I was 16 and content to be
5’2" of pure Jewish jewishness.
I ended up on an island
surrounded by old perverts
where high priestesses were chanting
while touching themselves
to escape dementia.
That’s when I spotted Steven Tyler
with giant white dentures
in half a coma.
I smelled a familiar perfume,
the one my grandmother had worn
to her own funeral.
My fly was undone,
my shirt unbuttoned,
and I was making love
to a barking tiny pony.
His or her name was
Barking Mad Elmo.
He or she was not distracted
by the 4 wheelerchairs going down
on a bunch of American teenagers,
the coolest of whom was
the guy who invented Ctrl-Alt-Delete
who also happens to be
the Fonz.
Yes, apparently,
the Fonz is back in town, and he’s looking for
Tantric sex involving Arthurian legends
involving Spongebob and Gandalf
involving gangsta rap and druidism,
all rolled together in the guise of some
tantric dragon lady with all sorts of spooky
Eastern sex secrets.
I wish him
all the luck.

– Sharon Mesmer

I confess that all Jews are pervs and it’s all cause of Solomon. And I’m damn proud!

Let’s see what else I can find, while I’m on the subject.

Bet you won’t guess the author of this little ditty till you read the name.

No More Access to Her Underpants

Her red dress stretched across the remembered small
of her dear bare back, bare for me no more,
that once so nicely bent itself in bed
to take my thrusts and then my stunned caress,
disclosing to my sated gaze a film
of down, of sheen, upon the dulcet skin–
her red dress stretched, I say, as carapace
upon her tasty flesh, she shows a face
of stone and turns to others at the party.

Her ass, its solemn cleft; her breasts, their tips
as tender in color as the milk-white bit
above the pubic curls; her eyes like pits
of warmth in the tousled light: all forfeit,
and locked in antarctic ice by this bitch.

– John Updike

12

an excerpt from “La Pelona as Birdwoman,”
by Rigoberto Gonzalez

Tonight
I dared to crawl
beneath the sheets

nailed down
around me,
waiting for my lover, she

who enters
without knocking, she
who will unstitch

my every seam
along my thigh,
my side, my armpit.

She who carves
a heart out of the heart
and drops it

down her throat.
Sweet surrender this
slow death in sleep

as I dream
the love-making
is autopsy. How else

will I be hers
completely? Be her
treasure box I said:

a trove of pearls
and stones, the ding
of coins cascading

through her fingers.
The bird over her shoulder
not a parrot, but an owl

to be my mirror
when I close my eyes
and shape a moon-white

bowl out of my face
where she can wash
the hooks of her caress.

Here is sex gone philosophical.

Reading for a book contest

Everyone knows it’s not easy to fall in love. You can’t just go out in the streets and shout, You.

You look like a nice guy. How about a turn in the sack? And expect he’ll be just the right fit. A one-size-fits-all kind of guy. (There are so few out there. Have you noticed?) But that’s exactly what I do. And so many things go wrong. How can I explain?

The first one I meet is one of those women who looks so nice. How can I resist? I think. And I’ve lucked out so soon. Before I know it, she’s taking me to her room, dimming the lights. I can almost taste her lips when she starts talking without pausing for breath. She talks all night. She wants to tell me everything about her life. (Don’t you hate a woman who talks in bed?) It’s like sleeping in an aviary, her sweet voice filling my night.

The second is a guy who has never gotten laid. But just looking at him, I know one day he’ll be great. (I’m psychic about a man’s future with sex.) He’ll be a regular Napoleon in bed. (And it’s not true what they said about Napoleon’s penis, by the way.) But tonight this man is so eager, he hasn’t even bothered to put his body on right. He has his hands in his eye sockets, his shoes on his ears, and a penis stuck to the back of his head. I want to shout look in the mirror for Christ’s sake. But instead I admire his body parts. Oh yes, I want to say. Yes, yes, yes! But I don’t.

The third is one of those real poets. You know the type. Even in bed I can picture him at the podium with his glasses and manuscript in hand. He’s the guy who thinks about having sex so much, he has theoretical sex. And there are just so many theories to consider. There’s Hegelian sex with its theses, antitheses, syntheses. Pascalian sex: he had it once with an god, and it has never been the same since. Or Plato’s sex. Of course Plato never had sex. But his shadow did.

It’s only when I’m ready to give up that I notice the woman in the corner wearing a plain black dress. (Why do poets always where those little black gowns with pumps and fishnets?) She has such nice legs, I think. And soon I can tell she’s wearing nothing underneath. I’m slipping off her covers in hopes that she feels as good on the inside as she looks on the surface. It’s always such a wonderful relief to find a winner in end. To say please and ah and mmmmm. To breathe deep and relax at last.

– Nin Andrews

after sex on a train

canadian rockies fill
my window I am naked
eating blueberry muffins
sipping coke and smelling sperm
lakes and pines no birds fly past
I think of wild blueberries
bleeding juice through pale yellow
the yellow that’s almost white
my calves bruised from holding on
rivers moving swollen white
rail ties lie in piles and I
sniff the musk that we all want
telephone poles bending toward
water the white birch the pines

– Jan Beatty

And on that note I’m going to end this literary tryst. Hope that convinces you that sex can be written about, and written about really well, for the most part, in a variety of different ways.

13

I like that line very much - erotic writings don’t sit right with me, so it is the only line I like… sorry! 8-[

14

That is a really beautiful haunting, poignant poem TUM and it is about far more than her losing her virginity.

Aside from that, I too prefer my sexual poetry really watered down to bare nuances, innuendo, warm imaginings, passionate glimpses veiled in subtle textures of indigo sky.

I enjoyed reading it again. Really a beautiful poem - The Lady of Shalott. Thanks TUM.

15

Magsj,

That’s cool. I don’t think what I wrote is good anyway, but I’m glad we both like that line. I don’t think erotic poetry, or fiction, for the sake of eroticism alone is any good. Especially when the written word has to compete with television, and soon, if not already, virtual reality. If sex is written about, it should go deeper than shadow play; it should be illustrative of something not accessible to other mediums. Focused on interiors for instance, like psychology.

Ar,
Glad you can appreciate the sexual themes in this, quite rightfully, deeply woven poem rich in many themes and various meanings. A real marvel.

16

Too raw for me. Let me steal your first line.

best delivered in a crisp British tone

[i]In the computer lab, she sat next
All I could think about was her turning her on
I wonder if her power button lights green or blue
Does she hum along, run silent or clatter
Is her motherboard green or gold?

Questions, questions, but what I want to do
Is overclock her
Fill 'er up with my USB drive
Install some hardware
While yanking her cord

And after we’re finished
She will need some defragging
While I tend to my floppy disk
Then it’s time to scan for viruses[/i]

:slight_smile:

hell, I’m so proud of my little poem I think i’ll post this in its own, separate thread

17

:laughing: I liked that Ity. that was cute and ingenious. =D> =D>