The Ang Smith Sex Column – Blowing My Hero

Ang Smith is an aspiring young writer finishing a design degree on the Gold Coast. She has a way with words. Damn me she has a way with words.

I ain’t never fucked a guy who read Bukowski. Heck, I ain’t never met anyone from the Gold Coast who even knew Bukowski. Unless you’re a word-whore, that dirty ol’ man lays relatively low.

But thinking back, I guess I never really asked.

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Heard of Bukowski?

Is that….like….a type of drink?

Negro, please. 

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What about you Ponyboy? Heard of Bukowski?

The writer?

Yes. Let’s trade quotes while you slam me from behind.

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The Gold Coast ain’t the poetry kind o’ girl. For although you’ll find a lot of things between those fake-tanned flaps, the literature of a Yank alcoholic really isn’t one of them. 

This peroxide-party slut can hook you up with pills and powders.

A fuck as easy as “riverstage motherfucker”. 

But the closest you’ll get to culture, is the Chinese medicine you rub on your newly acquainted Chlamydia. 

Ain’t she just a darl?

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Some guys look the part. Walk the art. 

Clear wayfarers and notebooks shoved in their uber-tight agent ninety nines. 

Crotched beanies and Hemingway quotes screen-printed on their X-L tees. 

Caramel soy chai latte in their frail fingers. 

Enough to make you want to blurt out your undying love for the great American author, thinking it will be reciprocated. 

But alas, these scene kids are no suitors.

No time for a blood red cab sav and an in depth review of the ol’ mans words. 

The Goldy’s got shit to do. 

Crowded point breaks to surf. 

Skin cancer to catch. 

Date-rape victims to find. 

Hair to bleach.

Silicon to insert.

And she’s quite happy never knowing Hank’s handiwork.

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My name is Ang. I live in Surfers Paradise and read Charles Bukowski’s poetry. I like red wine. 

If you are a male with any such common interests, let’s…like…play badminton.