Tag Archives: Valentine’s Day


For the lovers out there, I’ve crafted a piece of extremely erotic slam poetry. If at all possible you should read it to yourself while sipping whiskey and listening to sultry jazz spin on your turntable. This poem is about passion. ADULT passion. TIRED, ADULT passion. Enjoy.

It’s Friday night and I’m all alone
Got work to do ‘til the wife comes home
Sitting in my office, planning and writing
sending emails and blind carbon copying

Then keys jangle, bags rustle, I know the score
It’s my wife coming in through our back door

She’s carrying groceries, she’s tired, and she’s huffing
She says, “What you up to tonight, husband?
You got a show, a meeting, or something?”
And I say, “No, baby, I ain’t got nothing.”

So we slip into something more comfortable
Sweatpants so big a dog could get lost in ‘em
Throw our bodies on the couch and land with a flop
Flip up our hoodies so no body heat is lost out our tops

“We should talk about dinner,” says the wife with a sigh
“Maybe we can try to use the food processor again?”
“Fuck that shit,” I say, “let’s order in.”

What you want, baby?
Pizza, Chinese, a bagel with lox?
Doesn’t matter to me
I’ll eat anything that’s hot and comes in a box

We order pizza online with a quick click clack
Cleverly avoiding all human contact
And before you know it we’re all settled in
The pizza’s steaming and the motherfucking netflix is streaming

We’re watching some show we both like a lot
Starring good actors who are quirky but hot

We’re in the middle of Episode Two, Season Four
And the plot has more twists
Than our complimentary cinnamon stix
A telemarketer calls the wife on her phone so she sets it to silent
She’s all like, “Bitch, stop calling before I get violent.”
Wife doesn’t swear much, so it’s a funny joke
I laugh, spit up my whiskey, and almost choke
She’s knitting, I’m drinking, we’re watching, it’s heaven
Then we realize, shit, we just finished Season Seven

We’re getting tired, our legs are cramping, our asses are sore
I say, “Baby, I don’t know if I can take much more.”

And my wife says those three little words
Just one more
Just one more
Just one more

Just five more later, we go to bed and strip off our clothes
Throw ‘em in a pile of dirty shirts and panty hose
Finally it’s time for the main event
We burrow under the covers like we’re pitching a tent

We can feel the tension rising
Our excitement is super-sizing

We’re going to do this long and hard
We’re going to use all our power
And as god is our witness
We’re going to sleep for eight fucking hours

Come morning we’re cuddled in each other’s arms
There’s a noise, shit, we forgot to turn off the alarm

I thrust my hand over all of a sudden
To smack that little snooze button

“Yes,” my wife cries, “Hit it, hit that little button!”

And I pound and I pound away
My hand springing up like a jack in the box
To hit that ringing alarm clock
That electronic crowing cock
My arm gets stiff and strong like an ox
And I spend all morning
Slamming that tight little box

Sometime around eleven thirty eight
My wife says, “Damn. It’s getting pretty late,
We got stuff to do that just can’t wait.”

And I say, “Goddamn right, we got things that need doing
Let’s put on our hoodies and get the coffee brewing,
‘Cause today, baby, we got another hot date
We’re watching all of motherfucking Season Eight.”

This comedy blog post was made possible by the words “Oh” and “Yeah!” More importantly, it was made possible by kind pledges on Patreon. If you enjoyed the piece, you can help me post more by pledging as little as $1 per comedy blog post. Thank you very much for your time, support, and tired adult passion.


Filed under Comedy Real Life

Sense and Seven Minutes in Heaven

I wanted to write a new romantic story for Valentine’s Day. Instead, I just spent some time poking around on the internet. And I found something incredible: an unpublished Jane Austen erotica story called “Sense and Seven Minutes in Heaven.” Really, this was not written by me. It was written by Jane Austen. Which is odd, because there are a ton of f-bombs. Enjoy.



It is a truth universally acknowledged that a single man locked in a closet with a single woman must attempt to engage in pre-marital fornication. However little known the feelings or views of such a man on first entering the closet, this truth is so well fixed in the minds of single women, that should the suggestion of wanton ribaldry not be made, a single woman is disposed to consider it an insult.

These truths were not lost on Miss Margaret Lucy Anne Cockingwood of Cockton Manor on Old Cockingham Lane nestled in the quaint village of East Poppingcockshire.

Maggie, as she was known to her closest friends, was currently locked in a rather small closet with a legendarily dour gentleman named Mr. Frith Banbury Fannycock Cardington.

Mr. Cardington had protested greatly when the spinning bottle of port came to a definitive stop while clearly pointing in his direction with all the firmness and rigidity of a scolding Dowager’s jutting digit.

“I am ever so afraid, I must decline,” whined Mr. Cardington. “I do suffer from allergies so.”

But Maggie and the other dinner party guests had forced him into the closet as he bleated like a sheep about the dire risk of an apocalyptic sneezing fit.

And so, Maggie and Mr. Cardington stared at one another’s dimly lit silhouettes as the precious seconds ticked away and Mr. Cardington fumbled about for something interesting to say.

“I say,”  he said redundantly. “This small, tight space is rather damp isn’t it?”

“Not yet,” responded Maggie with an equal mixture of annoyance and lascivious intent.


Mr. Cardington was baffled by this blatant innuendo. “I’m sorry,” he murmured, “come again?”

“At this rate, there shan’t be time for that,” grumbled Maggie.

“What?” retorted Mr. Cardington as though he hadn’t just been bashed about the head with a rather obvious reference to multiple orgasms.

“Honestly, Mr. Cardington,” Maggie huffed, “have you no sense of social decorum? We are in this closet for a most singular purpose. Do you know what it is?”

“No!” Mr. Cardington whisper-yelled.

“There are no end of euphemisms for it,” Maggie protested. “Roasting the beef. Ringing for the butler. Braiding the wick. Visiting the stable. Polishing the soup spoon. It works with virtually any verb and noun, for heaven’s sake!”

Mr. Cardington’s ignorance was palpable. Indeed his confusion was as large as the British Empire itself, but ironically it appeared as though the sun would never rise on it.

“Mr. Cardington,” Maggie blurted, “I simply wish to fuck you!”


Sadly for Maggie, the only part of Mr. Cardington that stiffened was his upper lip.

“Miss Cockingwood,” he lectured, “as a gentleman, I’m afraid that I cannot bring myself to even mention aloud, much less agree to, such an illicit act.”

Maggie took a deep breath and launched into a lengthy speech about pride and pagan rituals and the hubris of British culture daring to impede the basic carnal knowledge to which flesh is heir, about sense and bi-sexuality, and the hideous damage sexual repression can do to the psyche of a nation. However, the thesis of her strident and eloquent argument could have easily been communicated with this compelling universal truth:

“There is nothing sadder than a single man who will not put out.”


The next 30 seconds passed in silence.

Time dragged forward with all the speed and warmth of a melting iceberg.

Finally, Mr. Cardington’s defiant posture slumped in defeat as he mumbled, “Oh, bugger me, fine.”

“We shall have to make haste,” Maggie admonished. “We only have three minutes left.”

Mr. Cardington cocked his left eyebrow and said, “That shan’t be a problem.”

Maggie kissed him furiously and the unlikely couple engaged in an awkward ballet of inelegant button popping and lace removing that was as hideous as it was exciting.


They fucked.


They continued fucking. The couple stumbled and wrestled, kicking up dust, causing Mr. Cardington to sneeze repeatedly. The closet became a symphony of bizarre human sounds.

Sneezing, moaning, copulating, perhaps flatulating?

Who could tell?

And who cared?

What with all the fucking.


Still fucking!

Maggie reached for Mr. Cardington’s fob. It was not a euphemism.

She reached into his waistcoat and popped open the watch. She was able to make out the time as Mr. Cardington’s naked white ass was so bright it actually gave off a glow—a dim romantic light like a big, tight kerosene lamp.

“We’re almost of time,” Maggie moaned.

Mr. Cardington, ever the gentlemen, informed Miss Cockingwood he was simply waiting for her.

There was a polite round of offers from both parties to allow the other to climax first.

Mr. Cardington stated rather firmly that he would hear nothing of it. He argued that he had already violated his own sense of gentlemanly conduct by agreeing to fuck Miss Cockingwood in the first place and should he allow himself to climax prematurely he feared he would not be able to live with the shame.

What would they say in London?

Maggie began to rebuke Mr. Cardington for his baroque attitude towards orgasm etiquette when fate intervened.

At the exact same moment, five things happened.

Maggie climaxed.

Mr. Cardington climaxed.

The closet door fell open.

Mr. Cardington sneezed.

The rest of the dinner party guests stared in shock.

Luckily, they were all quiet high on opium. They were also blinded by the sudden brightness of Mr. Cardington’s luminous white ass, so no one was precisely sure of what they saw that night.

Later, Maggie and Mr. Cardington would agree that three out of the seven minutes they spent in that tight, damp closet in Cockton Manor on Old Cockingham Lane nestled in the quaint village of East Poppingcockshire were, indeed, heaven.


A version of this story is also available in my book COMEDY OF DOOM.
Thanks for reading.

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