Art of Spoken Word [Story] by Michael Marrotti


It’s a shame what a man has to put himself through in order to get recognition for what he considers his creative expression. How far are you willing to go? Is the digital realm the best option when there’s millions of people, and horrendous statistics? Here’s your heart and soul on display only to be bypassed for a set of tits. It’s gender warfare and my side is under attack by desperate skinny dicks under the delusion that a like or complimentary comment will be rewarded by the spreading of pussy lips. It’s all about sex. This is turning into a headache and I’m running low on Tylenol.

Besides that, the feeling of performing live is a feeling that goes unmatched. For the most part.

This is my third time performing at Marrotti’s Coffee Shop for “The Art Of Spoken Word.” The first time was a blunder. The second time wasn’t much better, but I am at the beginning stages of complacency. It hasn’t been an easy time for me.

The place is usually packed with people from Castle Shannon to Bloomfield. Silence takes over the small intimate affair as each mediocre poet takes the mic.

If you suffer from insomnia all you gotta do is show up for this event. I guarantee you’ll be snoring within fifteen minutes. Yeah, it’s that exciting.

At least I have the opportunity to force people to listen to my poetry. And they applaud me for my efforts, although, I’m not special in that aspect. It’s considered good edict, and if we don’t follow the policy of fascism under the guise of kindness we’ll all have to exit the establishment. So who knows how sincere they are? I suppose we’ll never know.

I’m sitting at a table for one yawning my way through the mediocrity. The cute emo girl with big bouncing c cups just finished her selection. To me it sounded more like an angsty journal entry than a bona fide piece of poetry. Nobody else seemed to mind. They all just applauded like the obedient bunch of assholes they truly are. The fallacy carries on.

Now some fat dork with a bad complexion is up on stage rambling about loneliness. He’s a living breathing cliche in need of a clean shirt without grease stains and a few hundred dollars to blow on a hooker who’s short on rent. When free will is no longer free, there’s always capitalism. He too receives a warm response. This is fucking ridiculous.

Next up is a feminazi. She has the shaved head and hairy armpits to prove it. Here we go again, the cliche reigns supreme. OK bitch, we get it. You never had a good piece of dick and you hate men because of it. We’re all to blame. How open minded of you. She did a fine job of insulting half the crowd, but that did nothing to dissuade them from applauding. I took off to the bathroom before that happened. I’m the only male who saved face.

My anxiety has been building up since I walked through that door. It’s doing a number on my stomach, and now I gotta empty my bowels. I wipe three times, flush and leave the toilet seat up to prove a point. Then I wash my hands, turn out the light and make my way back to my seat.

Another female poet is up on stage wasting everyone’s time, and I’m thinking I should’ve snorted an adderoll before showing up to this. My jaw hurts from all the yawning.

New faces keep going up on stage, bombarding the crowd with lyrical torture. We must all be masochistic to be submitting to this. I’ll be damned if I leave without showcasing a true display of evocative poetry.

My time is coming and my anxiety is getting the best of me. I can feel it in my penis. It’s pulsating. I feel like I’m gonna cum. I better go handle this before it results in humiliation. The last thing I want is to accidentally squeeze one out while reciting poetry. I’ll be the laughing stock of the neighborhood.

I covertly sneak into the bathroom, quickly pull down my khakis and unleash my throbbing penis. I’m stroking away using saliva as lubricant, fantasizing about the emo girl coming into the bathroom kneeling down onto the piss that didn’t make it into the toilet and swallowing every last bit of panic from my bulging penis. The fantasy is good enough to have me cum in under a minute. I came like a rock star. The sink is covered in seed.

I carefully pull up my pants, but not carefully enough. A large drop of cum found a place to call its own on the front of my pants directly by my crouch! For the love of God, this can’t be happening. I hear another applause outside followed by my name. Oh fuck! I’m next!

I rush out of the bathroom covered in sweat. I’m a nervous wreck and I’ve only compacted my problems.

I’m up on a stage reciting my poetry with a noticeable cum stain on my pants. Sweats beading down my flushed face, my hearts racing a mile a minute. I haven’t been bold enough to look at the crowd my first two times up on stage, and I’m sure as fuck not going do it this time around either.

“Yoga pants and smiley faces
I’m a tramp out on the prowl
in need of a stamp, out for
knowledge, is this the way
to travel for the moist
pleasures of your love
tunnel or am I heading in
the wrong direction, all I
want is satisfaction, stuck
in a world of darkness,
illuminating the way as
I spray the cum of a
neighborhood friendly

People rise from the warmth of their comfortable chairs to applaud my poetry. Who didn’t know that? Third times a charm.

The emo girl keeps her sad green eyes on me all the way back to my seat. I think I’ve acquired a fan.

I proudly reclaim my chair accompanied by a blatantly obvious cum stain feeling like a man who just conquered Brookline.

Emo girl keeps turning around making eye contact with me. After the third time I wave her on back. Her fat ass c cups are bouncing the entire time.

She takes a seat next to me and says, “Hi I’m Rita,” in the sexist voice available.

I reply, “Hi, honey. I’m Mario.”

The charm of her piercing green eyes wares off within seconds, and my eyes start to wonder. She’s complimenting me on my writing, and all I can do is focus on the self inflicted slice wounds on her left arm. I counted twelve tracks, she’s one shy of being lucky. I guess the time isn’t right for the long, lonely journey up the tracks. It’ll come. It’s inevitable.

“I’ve never heard anything as sexual and provocative as I have from you tonight, Mario. My pussy was soaking wet by the time you finished.”

“Wow! Thank you, honey! That’s one hell of a compliment.”

She looks deep into my eyes and says, “You earned it!”

“Can I ask you a serious question, Rita?”

“As long as it’s the right one.”

“Is it still wet?”

We’re clearly breaking the rule of silence by carrying on with this stimulating dialogue. The fascist proprietor takes notice with his queer little haircut and quietly asks us to leave if we can’t obey the policies. Rita and I give each other a look of approval, get up from our seats and depart the establishment.

Outside on Brookline boulevard Rita answers my question directly below a street light.

“Come here Mario gimme your hand.”

She takes my hand and rubs it onto her vagina. She’s wearing yoga pants so I can practically feel the wetness seeping through her pleasurable pussy lips. I’m fully aroused.

“Does that answer your question?”

“Yes. Yes it does!”

“What’s the other question you have, Mario?”

“Who said there was another question?”

“Oh, come on. I’m not stupid. I seen you eyeballing my arm. Does it bother you?”

“I can’t say it does.”

“Well, I just want you to know, when words don’t suffice, I have a tendency to express myself with knives.”

“That’s reassuring.”

“Hahah. Don’t worry, Mario. I’ve never turned the knife on anyone before, and I surly don’t plan on doing it now. I like you.”

“I like you too, honey. You’re so damn sexy.”

“Thank you! Now it’s time for me to ask a question. What’s up with that cum stain?”

“I’d rather not disclose that.”

With a smile on her face she asks, “Are you gonna be able to cum again?”

I reply with a feeling of self assurance, “Absolutely!”

She takes my hand and brings me up the boulevard until we reach Stebbins avenue. Then we make a right and another quick right onto Berkshire avenue. Her apartment is five houses down on the left.

The apartment itself has high ceilings, white walls equipped with a Sid Vicious poster, a modest sized flat screen television and wooden floors. It has a cozy feel to it, but not as cozy as her moist vagina.

She leads me back to her bedroom swaying her ass from side to side. Then she throws me onto the queen size mattress and starts the strip show. She removes her black tank top to reveal a pink bra which she rips off. Huge pierced nipples are erect, pointing in my direction. My mouth starts to water as she pulls down the yoga pants revealing her matching pink G-string. She pulls that off to reveal a completely shaved snatch.

Precum is seeping from the head of my penis. I tell her to get over here and she rips my clothes off, takes my manhood into her mouth and begins to suck. She’s looking into my eyes making sounds of enjoyment. I’m in a state of ecstasy, wishing it’ll never stop. She pulls my cock out her mouth for a second to compliment the taste of my precum. This is amazing!

“I want you inside me, Mario!”

“Oh my god! You’re so fucking hot! Jump on this cock, honey!”

“Ok, baby! That cock is mine!”

She gets on top of me and directs my penis with her hand into her warm welcoming vagina. Then she begins to bounce on it like a coked out kangaroo. I’m smacking her tight ass, sucking those huge tits so hard I think the piercings are gonna fly down my throat. Then three minutes later I’m screaming, “I’m gonna cum!” She jumps off at the precise moment and takes my seed her mouth. Once I’m drained of my salty substance she opens up to show me the accomplishment.

“Holy fuck! That’s was amazing!”

“Fuck yeah it was! You gonna get me off now?”

“I thought you came already?”

“Um, no Mario. You’re the only one who came.”

“Honey, I’m tired you’re gonna have to give me a minute.”

“No you fucking asshole! I wanna cum now!”

“Wow! You really are crazy.”

“You wanna see crazy, motherfucker?”

Rita jumps out of bed and goes straight to the kitchen. My anxiety is back full force. I hear the silverware drawer open. I’m grabbing all my clothes as fast as possible but it’s too late. Rita is in the room with a butcher knife to her wrist.

“I’ll show you crazy, motherfucker!”

She starts to gash her arm in front of me. Blood is seeping out, I’m losing my mind and running for the door.

“Look what you made me do! You did this, Mario!”

I hop over the coffee table, reach for the door and make my escape. That bitch was fucking bonkers! So much for a happy ending.

Michael Marrotti is an author from Pittsburgh using words instead of violence to mitigate the suffering of life in a callous world of redundancy. His primary goal is to help other people. He considers poetry to be a form of philanthropy. When he’s not writing, he’s volunteering at the Light Of Life homeless shelter on a weekly basis. If you appreciate the man’s work, please check out his for his latest poetry and short stories.


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