I was a teenage poemboi…



I sadly admit it. I used to write poems.

And yes, somewhere buried in my room there is a notebook or two of my work.

But I had a good reason for writing poetry. And, surprisingly enough, it’s testosterone related.

Back in the day, I used to go to college. If I ever got off my ass and got my paperwork together, I’d have enough credits for either an associates degree in general studies, or if I ever took another class or two, I could get an associates degree with an English major. At least that’s how I remember it from the conversation I had with a counselor years ago. Anywho…

My forte in college was English. Not so much that I had a knack for it, but more so it was easier to bullshit my way through papers. Something you can’t really do with math or science. Give me a six page English final over a three problem math final any day of the week, because I can wing a paper like nobody’s business.

One of the classes I took in about my third semester was a creative writing class. Oh man, when I saw that one offered, that was a dream come true. To me, it was a gimme “A.” I mean, how could I not get an A? Aside from grammatical errors, grading was subjective. And if I could nail my regular English classes, this one was going to be a breeze. And it more or less was. But, again, I’m digressing.

About the third day of class, the teacher (I forgot his name, but he was probably one of the best teachers I ever had) stood at the top of the room and said, “All of the short-story writers on this side of the room (his right), and all of the poets on this side of the room (his left, duh).”

I was in the direct middle of the room. There were five rows. I was in row three. In the back. As I had not yet decided what I was going to write (I was there to hone my writing and get a grade), I just sat there as people moved around to their appropriate spots.

Plus, I wanted to see who moved where.

As it happened, all of the women moved to the poet side and all of the men moved to the short-story side.

Me? Yeah. That day I became a poet for the first time ever. I never even knew I had it in me.

In a class of about 20 people, I was sitting with all of the women, loving every minute of it. Well, there was that one girl that sat on the short-story side, but she could stay there as far as I was concerned.

And, ironically enough, I busted my ass writing in that class more than any other class I had taken up to that point. It’s amazing the work you put in when you are trying to impress.

I’m not embarassed about being a poemboi. I had good reason.

And I still never called myself a writer.

I wrote you a poem…

There are three different types of writers in this world.

At the top of list there are published authors who make their living at writing. These cats are usually at the top of their game and have put in their time to the craft. I put both novelists and journalists in this game. Basically, if they don’t do any other work but write, whether you enjoy their work or not, they are at the top.

The second type are the writers, while haven’t quite taken the step to write full time (or make a decent enough living from it), but have maybe a book or two published. Or maybe some short stories in credited magazines/book collections. Or maybe they freelance and get the occasional article published. But they aren’t quite their yet and maybe have a full-time job (or maybe part-time), but they are sweating to hone their craft and trying to make a name for themselves.

The third, and intentionally last, are the wannabe writers. Nine times out of ten, these consist of wannabe romantics who, when asked what they do, they reply with “I’m a writer.” It doesn’t matter if they are a policeman, fireman or Indian chief because they tell everyone they come in contact with they are a writer.

Guys, I’m talking to you now. Let me clear up any confusion.

No. You’re not a writer. You’re not even close.

You are about as much as a writer as the waitress in LA is an actress. Just because you have a notebook or two of crappy-ass love poems — and, yes, trust me, not only do they suck, but even the women you try to use them on think they’re ghey — doesn’t even come close to give you the right to pass yourself off as an author.

And, while we’re on the subject of your poems…

Stop it, okay? Just stop it.

Nobody wants to read them.

Honestly, when was the last time you went to Borders & Noble and thought to yourself, “I have a hankering for a mammoth book of poems.”

That’s right. Never.

And let me tell you something else. I know the only poems you read are your own. And, coincidently, you are also the only person who willingly reads your poems.

Let’s face it, unless you are a 16 year old girl, poetry is pretty boring.

I know all of this because I was once there. Well, I’ve never been silly enough to claim myself an author, but I did the poetry thing. And, like you, I did it to get laid — or, at least, to get women. But that is a story in itself and will have to wait until another time.

So, let’s sum it up.

1. Writing notebooks of poetry doesn’t make you a writer. Unless you are as big as Stephen fucking King, no one wants to read it.

2. Stop claiming you are a writer. Unless you are making a viable living from your craft, or are busting your ass so you can, writing a verse about the beating of your heart does not make you a writer no more than me recording myself talking makes me a DJ.

3. Stop writing poetry. Poetry is easy. Write a book.

Now, somewhere in this blog (not this entry, this blog), is a poem I wrote. I thinks I even say it’s the most honest thing I’ve ever written, and it is. But the difference is I don’t claim to be a writer (although I am probably more of a writer than half of the poemboi knuckleheads will ever be).

So, again boys, stop with the lies. You are only fooling yourselves.

And, so you completely get it, I will put it in a language that you will understand. I wrote you a poem.

Roses are red
Violets are blue
Stop fucking calling yourself a writer

I really do love women…

I think with some of my previous blogs may come across as a tad bitter. They may come across that I hate women. Well, let me clear the air.

I love women.

Love, love, love.

I love the way they laugh. I love the way they smell. I love the way they taste.

I love the napes of their neck, the small of their back.

I love that curve from the drop of the hip to just below the ribs when a woman is laying on her side.

I love the way they sleep, they eat, drink, breath.

I love the arch of their back and the pressure of their hands on my chest at the moment of pleasure.

I love women.

As much as I bitch, I don’t blame all women for the idiots I’ve either dated (that’s on me) or have had bad experiences with, because I have had just as many good experiences.

So why not write about the good, then?

I’m a much funnier cynic.

It’s too late. I don’t care anymore…

When I was about 19 or so, I went to a seafood restaurant with my sister, her boyfriend and some of our mutual friends.

We were all having a really good time, but I was a bit distracted because the waitress looked really, really familiar. I was so sure I had known her from somewhere, but I couldn’t place where. I was fairly sure it wasn’t from school, but, like I said, I wasn’t sure.

I mentioned her to one of my friends and he said he recognized her, too, but he didn’t know from where. Then he suggested I ask her her name.

What? Whoa there. Moving just a little to fast. Asking her name actually required talking to her, and she was cute.

Back in the day, I was terrified of pretty women. Terrified. Admittedly, they still give me the stupid when I’m around them, but at least I can now hold a semi-intelligent conversation with them. At least I think I can. If I’m not, I’m good at fooling myself, and that’s what really matters.

Eventually, however, curiosity won over my fear when I ran into her on my way to the bathroom.

“Angela, right?” I asked. She had actually given her first name to the table when she took our order.

“Yeah.” She said.

“What’s your last name?” I asked.

“Why?” She said. Immediately, and I mean immediately, defensive.

“I think I might know you.”



“Because you look familiar. I’m not trying to pick you up. You just look familiar.” I said. I mean, what else could I have possibly responded with. That last ‘why?’ didn’t even make sense.

She just looked at me.

“Well, what school did you go to?” I asked, trying a different route.


Jesus. Was she for real?

“Fuck it.” I said. “Nevermind.” And I went to the bathroom.

I did what I did, washed my hands and exited the bathroom — where I damn near ran into her because she was right outside the door, obviously waiting for me.

“Stone.” She said.

“What?” I asked.

“Angela Johnson. I went to Thomas Stone.”

“Oh. I don’t care anymore.” I said. And I went back to the table.

On the way home after the meal, I told my friend what happened.

“You are such a dick,” he laughed.


“She probably thought you were trying to pick her up. That you were using a line.”

“Oh. So the ‘you look familiar’ and ‘I’m not trying to pick you up’ weren’t hints that I wasn’t trying to pick her up? They weren’t giveaways?”

“It doesn’t matter what you said. She probably gets picked up a lot. She probably thought you were picking her up — well, at least up until you said ‘fuck it’. Then she probably realized you weren’t picking her up.” My friend was laughing hard by the last line. He was having a good time.

“Whatever.” I said, still a little miffed.

“Look at it this way, you probably got more truthful info out of her than most guys going to that joint. Stud.” Laughing as he said it.

I laughed too. Sometimes, there’s not much else you can do.

True story…

A couple years ago — well, closer to 12 — I went out to a bar hopping with a bunch of women I knew. There was Staci, Tracy, Kathy, two others whose names escape me and myself. All of the women were attractive, so I was feeling like a king dingaling.

We decided to bar hop on Solomon’s Island, as it was a great night, there were numerous bars literally next door to each other and it was on the water. Good times were afoot.

By the time we hit the third bar, I was feeling pretty good. Since I was designated driver, I couldn’t get too drunk, but I had plenty of time to sober up before we left. Also, since I was designated driver, the women were buying my drinks. I’m not going to lie and say that it’s not an ego boost that whenever your beer is empty, a good looking woman goes and buys you another one — friend or not. Because it is. It’s not just the fact a hottie is buying you a drink, it’s also the fact that people see it. So, due to a combination of alcohol and ego, yeah, I was doing alright.

As soon as we entered the bar, all of the women I was with went straight to bathroom. I went straight to the bar. I knew what they were all drinking so I went ahead and ordered for them. While the drinks were being prepped, I scoped out the bar. And, for the third time in as many bars, I saw the same two girls and the guy they were with. Coincidence, I’m sure. But it also could have been a sign. My drunk ass was going with a sign, because I had determined at the first bar which girl was with the guy and which was the third wheel. As they were both hot, it was a win/win situation for me. Or so I thought.

Soon after I noticed the threesome, the women I was with came back and grabbed their drinks. Surprisingly, we managed to find a table to accommodate us all, and we put our drinks on the table and asses in the chairs. But, as it goes, the women weren’t doing for more than five minutes before they were ready to hit the dance floor. I declined when they asked me to join them as I was smoking a coffin nail and I was eyeballing up the single girl dancing with her friend and her friend’s boyfriend. I was going to make a move on the girl, but I like to operate alone. Particularly when there’s a chance I might get shot down. No one needs to see that.

And, bear in mind, I normally don’t talk to women at bars. I find pick-up lines incredibly stupid. If a conversation just happens, I’m cool with that, but generally I don’t initiate shit. I don’t ever want to come across as one of “those guys.” I hate those guys.

Anyway, the women I was with hit the floor, I waited a minute or two for them to get involved, snubbed my smoke and headed for Ms. Single to work my magic.

I walked up to where they were dancing and got close enough to the girl to get her attention. “Do you mind if I dance with you?” I asked (or probably yelled to be heard over the music). And yeah, probably not the best line, but I’d rather ask than get up and start grinding her ass like I’ve seen a lot of “those guys” do.

“What?!?” she yelled back.

I repeated.

“Oh, um, no. I’m, uh, I’m with him.” She said, referring to her friend’s boyfriend (who happened to by dry humping the other girl at this point).

“Oh, sure.” I said, a bit agitated. Not so much that I was turned down (while that is never good), but the fact that I was so blatently lied to. Of all my pet peeves, that’s a big one. I don’t lie, I don’t like being lied to. Even by people I don’t know.

So I turned to the girl who was all but giving a bj to Ms. Single’s “boyfriend.”

“I imagine you are with him too, huh.” Not so much in a desperate way, because by then I didn’t want anything to do with either one at this point. It was more of a sarcastic “I know you are lying to me” way. Looking back, that was petty. Or, rather, pathetic. Something I wouldn’t say now. But I’m digressing.

“Yeah, I am.” she said, and meat head smiled, like he was the man. Okay, cool guy.

I headed back to the table, not quite fuming, but definitely a little ticked. I needed another beer and another cigarette because my mood was swinging fast and I had hours to go before we left. When I got back to the table, Staci and Tracey were sitting down talking. And they had seen what happened. It didn’t take a rocket scientist to know what was said, but I filled them in anyway.

“Oh fuck them bitches.” Tracy said.

“You want to get them back without doing anything?” Staci asked.

“No. I’m not resentful she said no, I’m just pissed she lied to me. She just could have said no.” I said. “No need to get her back.”

“C’mon, Stewie, you’ll see.” Staci said and she and Tracy led me to the dance floor.

Women have are amazing in the way that not only do they know how other women think (obviously), but they know have an unspoken psychic ability with each other when they are making a plan. Because as soon as we hit the dance floor, all the women I was with started getting freaky all over me. My mood quickly went back to good. I mean, how could it not? I was in heaven.

At one time, Tracy was all up on my backside and Staci was all up on my frontside — the women were rotating shifts — and Staci leaned up and whispered in my ear, “In a minute, turn yourself around to face Traci, but be subtle. The girl you asked to dance now can’t keep her eyes off you.”

I waited a minute or two and did what Staci told me too, I turned, or rather, danced around. And cold busted Ms. Single watching me. She tried to play it off, but it was too late. A couple beats later, she looked over again. Her expression was a mixture of uncertainty and surprise. It made me want to smile, which I did — at her — and I turned away.

Not long after that song was over we all left the dance floor, gathered our shit, and hit the fourth bar. And a fifth.

At the sixth bar (I think it was a sixth, we might have gone back to the first, my memory is fuzzy on this), we were all on the dance floor cutting a rug when I felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned around, and to my surprise, there was Ms. Single.
“You want to dance?” She asked.

“What?!?” I said back. Oh, I had heard her, but I wanted her to say it again. And she did.

I looked over her shoulder, and sitting down watching were her two friends.

I gave them a big grin, looked at her (still smiling), and said, “No. You have your boyfriend you can dance with.”

She didn’t say a word. She just turned and walked back to the table, where I got a dirty look from the guy. They soon left.

I don’t think I will ever understand why, exactly, she changed her mind. I mean, I know why, but I don’t know why. With guys, it’s different. With guys, if a girl asks them to dance, and they say no, then they see the girl dancing with another guy, we don’t give a shit. Her dancing with someone doesn’t change our attraction to them.

But with women, who knows. I’m sure I could take a seminar on what was going on in her mind that night. And I’m just as sure I would come out of said seminar just as confused as I was going in.

Either way, I’m glad I was with the women I was with. They turned a potentially shitty night into an amusing memory. Albeit a tad petty.

But I can live with that.