more dirty jokes

If there is one thing I love more than being creative, it is a well-told dirty joke.

The problem is: the really good ones are so contextual that they almost always fall into the “you had to be there” category.

Okay, let’s call them “stories with a saucy punchline”. Ummmm, the abbreviation would be SWASP. That sounds vaguely sexual in a sado-masochist kind of way. It could work!

And here’s an example of a SWASP.

I was working at Circle K at some point earlier this year, and my feet were killing me. One of my co-workers said, “We have mats to help you with that!” and went into the other room to drag one to the register.  I was talking with another employee and not paying enough attention so she said, “Here, let me slide this in there for you.”  Without a moment’s hesitation, without much thought, I responded, “That’s what he said.”

For a dangling moment of realization, everyone held their collective breath.  I knew there was a customer at the register and I didn’t know if they were prudish enough to report me for what could be construed, worst case, as sexual harrassment.

Then we all looked at each other and lost it. The customer put all of her change in the donation jar to say thank you as she walked out the door, wiping away tears.

But telling it now, it just doesn’t have the same kick. Like I said, you had to be there.

So I like the kind of dirty joke that is hidden in plain sight. Imagine if Taylor Swift drew pictures of pensises in a 69 shape and then inserted them into her videos.

And here’s an example. From my most recent collection of poems.

The last four poems are about female gaze on male beauty. They are titled:


That was totally on purpose.

Also, the last poem of my first collection of poetry has a tie-in meta joke about erotica.

The last poem of that collection is Sir Lawrence which has a meaning for MRME, if he were ever to read it. And if not, then it is still a great poem IMHO.  But it also has a secret meaning, and that is to combine it with David.

David Lawrence. The name probably doesn’t mean much to you, but it does to me.

Here’s a hint.


Yeah, I didn’t figure that would help the general public, but above is a picture of David Herbert Lawrence, a.k.a. D. H. Lawrence, the author of Lady Chatterley’s Lover.

If you are looking to hit English-language erotic pay-dirt, look no further.

I offer the following quote: “We fucked a flame into being.”

Or how about this one: “Obscenity only comes in when the mind despises and fears the body, and the body hates and resists the mind.”

Or this one, which I would break up into shorter paragraphs, personally:

“His body was urgent against her, and she didn’t have the heart anymore to fight … She saw his eyes, tense and brilliant, fierce, not loving. But her will had left her. A strange weight was on her limbs. She was giving way. She was giving up…she had to lie down there under the boughs of the tree, like an animal, while he waited, standing there in his shirt and breeches, watching her with haunted eyes … He too had bared the front part of his body and she felt his naked flesh against her as he came into her. For a moment he was still inside her, turgid there and quivering. Then as he began to move, in the sudden helpless orgasm, there awoke in her new strange thrills rippling inside her. Rippling, rippling, rippling, like a flapping overlapping of soft flames, soft as feathers, running to points of brilliance, exquisite and melting her all molten inside. It was like bells rippling up and up to a culmination. She lay unconscious of the wild little cries she uttered at the last. But it was over too soon, too soon, and she could no longer force her own conclusion with her own activity. This was different, different. She could do nothing. She could no longer harden and grip for her own satisfaction upon him. She could only wait, wait and moan in spirit and she felt him withdrawing, withdrawing and contracting, coming to the terrible moment when he would slip out of her and be gone. Whilst all her womb was open and soft, and softly clamouring, like a sea anenome under the tide, clamouring for him to come in again and make fulfillment for her. She clung to him unconscious in passion, and he never quite slipped from her, and she felt the soft bud of him within her stirring, and strange rhythms flushing up into her with a strange rhythmic growing motion, swelling and swelling til it filled all her cleaving consciousness, and then began again the unspeakable motion that was not really motion, but pure deepening whirlpools of sensation swirling deeper and deeper through all her tissue and consciousness, til she was one perfect concentric fluid of feeling, and she lay there crying in unconscious inarticulate cries.”

Whew! That sounds like some pretty good sex to me.

All of this makes me want to talk about how much I adore Anaïs Nin, but I don’t want to rush that orgasm… I mean climax… I mean intense pleasure with emotional release.

And what I really want to say about all of this is… let it go.

Let go of your pride, let go of your hate, let go of your fear, let go of your shame and sorrow and squeamishness and stupidity. Life is too damn short to be reined in by other people’s notions of good and bad. Figure out what turns you on and for all the rest…

Let. It. Go.

I start a killer week at work tomorrow afternoon, and I will no doubt be wanting to post stories with a saucy punchline but no doubt be too tired to do much more than wish.

This poem belongs in two dozen roses, because it is straight-up about MRME.  Sadly, it didn’t make the cut because I couldn’t figure out what to title it before press time.

Once I started writing about body parts, however, I decided it should be named shoulder, and so it got bumped back a couple collections. Here it is now.


I ponder at length on the weight
that this life has placed on your back.
I muse what sort of man you are,
when you are not under attack.

I sense long mornings with laughter,
and enough sex to sate a teen.
I smile as you talk sports to me;
when you fib, feel bad and come clean.

there’s a scar from your time in the war
running a ridge right of your spine.
there are stories you’ll never share,
so I don’t ask, and it’s all fine.

you were a boy when you left home,
sent to a land where you might die,
to a people who’d do the deed,
to Hell: you know that’s not a lie.

I understand your kin believes
a soldier is a paragon.
but I, for one, am glad that you
prudently chose brains over brawn.

Hours I own all of these ideas, but none of these images.
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