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The Sex Blog Of Record
Tuesday, April 14th, 2026 -- by Bacchus
I rather famously don’t believe in sluts. I’m not sure that comedian and actor Bo Burnham does either, but he certainly did go through a phase in which he liked to shock audiences with transgressive language. I extracted and excerpted this (he called it a love poem, and I think I believe him, but you easily might not, and that would be a defensible stance) from a spoken word performance he did on Comedy Central back in 2013, presently available on Youtube. It’s hard for my rapidly-aging ears to make out all of his intricate rapid-fire patter on the recording, but AI-assisted transcription is getting super-good these days.
I Fuck Sluts
Sluts! Sluts! Sluts! I fuck sluts.
Sluts get fucked when I fuck sluts, no ifs, ands, and/or buts. I fuck sluts. I fuck sluts.
Nice girls are nice, but no good for nut-sucking. They’ll need a serene night to greenlight a buttfucking, but that’ll be easy with sleazy old slutfucking. Boo to the nice girls. Praise be to slutfucking. I have a list, a list, yes a list of all the sluts I’ve missed. I’ve never fucked or sucked these sluts, and thus my nuts are fucking pissed.
So when I fuck the lucky slut, my nut removes her from the list. Another dumb cum-bucket struck from my nut-sucking, suck-it-slut, slut-fucking bucket list.
Sluts can be white, black, brown, pink, or almond. They can be skinny with big tits, or be skinny with small ones. Sluts can be perky, preppy, or posh, with their brains and their clothes all shrunk from the wash.
But other sluts are pretty and funny and smart. These sluts can lift all your thoughts from your dick to your heart. They can talk about science, music, or art. They can put you together, or they can pull you apart, but don’t trust these sluts. Don’t you dare! They’ll force you to trust them and love them and care. And then they’ll be gone, and then you’ll be aware of that hole in your heart that that dumb slut left there.
[In a tone of sarcastic over-explaining:] “So, you see, he was lashing out with sexist language because he had his heart broken…”
In 2013, Bo himself was only 23 years old. The viewpoint-narrator in this poem (and with this language I am explicitly disclaiming the old mistake of finding the author’s opinions in the words of his characters) sounds at least that young to me. It’s right at the top of the poem. “Boo to the nice girls” my hairy ass. There are nicer girls to be met!
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Friday, February 23rd, 2018 -- by Bacchus
In Percy Bysshe Shelley’s poem Alastor the narrator, asleep in the vale of Cashmire, dreamed of a veiled maid:
Sudden she rose,
As if her heart impatiently endured
Its bursting burthen: at the sound he turned.
And saw by the warm light of their own life
Her glowing limbs beneath the sinuous veil
Of woven wind, her outspread arms now bare,
Her dark locks floating in the breath of night.
Her beamy bending eyes, her parted lips
Outstretched and pale, and quivering eagerly.
Who among us, really, hasn’t had a dream very like that one? Apparently the veil she was wearing was pretty thin (also true to my experience of such dreams) and that seems to have been how American illustrator Frank Thayer Merrill imagined her as well:
Artwork is from this 1905 edition of Shelly’s poems at the Internet Archive.
Saturday, July 16th, 2011 -- by Bacchus
So there’s this thread on Reddit, see, with almost 9000 comments, on the topic: Admit it, what’s the creepiest thing you’ve ever done?
It’s fully of creepy. Reddit delivers.
But that’s not why I’m mentioning it.
No, I’ve got a mild interest in folk poetry, especially dirty doggerel. And there’s this one subthread, triggered by a guy who sent a modestly creepy “roses are red, violets are blue” poem to a girl via anonymous mail. And folks contributed numerous comments with their own creepy “roses are red” poetic contributions. It’s kinda fascinating actually, although it’s hard to read without thinking “geez, rape culture much?” (Actually that’s even more true of the whole Reddit thread. Apparently the distinction between “creepy” and “rapey” is narrower than I imagined.)
Anyway, here’s the anal sex one:
Roses are red
Violets are blue
Let’s make sweet love
In the hole where you poo
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Sunday, December 21st, 2008 -- by Bacchus
This is a poem on adultery, from a 1656 book called “Sportive Wit” compiled by John Phillips and, as he put it, “collected for the publick good, by a club of sparkling wits”.
In essence it’s a sermon on the futility of marital jealousy, I would say:
The Bulls Feather
It chanced not long ago, as I was walking,
An echo did bring me to where two were talking:
‘Twas a man said to his wife, Die had I rather,
Then to be cornuted, and wear the Bulls feather.
Then presently she replied, Sweet, art thou jealous?
Thou canst not play Vulcan before I play Venus:
Thy fancies are foolish, such follies to gather:
There’s many an honest man has worn the Bulls feather.
Though it be invisible, let no man it scorn,
Though it be a new feather made of an old horn:
He that disdains it, in heart or mind either,
May be the more subject to wear the Bulls feather.
He that lives discontent, or in despair,
And feareth false measure, because his wife’s fair:
His thoughts are inconstant, much like winter weather
Though one or two want it, he shall have a feather.
Bulls feathers are common as Ergo in schools,
And only contemned by those that are fools:
Why should a Bulls feather cause any unrest,
Since neighbours fare always is counted the best?
Those women wh’are fairest, are likeliest to give it;
And husbands that have them, are apt to believe it.
Some men though their wives should seem for to tether,
They would play the kind neighbour, and give the Bulls feather.
Why should we repine that our wives are so kind,
Since we that are husbands, are of the same mind?
Shall we give them feathers, and think to go free?
Believe it, believe it, that hardly will be.
For he that disdains my Bulls feather today,
May light of a Lass that will play him foul play.
There’s ne’er a proud Gallant that treads on Cows leather,
But he may be cornuted, and wear the Bulls feather.
Though beer of that brewing I never did drink,
Yet be not displeased if I speak what I think:
Scarce ten in a hundred, believe it, believe it,
But either they’ll have it, or else they will give it.
Then let me advise all those that do pine,
For fear that false Jealousie shorten their time;
That disease will torment them worse then any fever:
Then let all be contented, and wear the Bulls feather.
Wednesday, December 17th, 2008 -- by Bacchus
This is from “Wit Restored” by John Mennes, dating to 1658:
On a Maid’s Leg
Fair Betty used to tuck her coats up high,
That men her foot and leg might soon espy.
Thou hast a pretty leg, (saith one) fair Duck.
Yea, two, (saith she) or else I have ill luck.
They’re two indeed, they’re twins, I think, quoth he,
They are, and yet they are not, Sir, said she;
Their birth was both at once, I dare be sworn
And yet between them both a man was born.
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