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.
