Charles Bukowski knew how to satisfy a woman with his tongue and wasn’t shy about telling us this. Mostly a drunkard, known to dabble in poetry and writing, Bukowski appears to have been a very capable lover.
In guise of his alter ego, Henry Chinaski—the protagonist in Post Office (1971) and Women (1978)—Bukowski would mount any number of ladies, often with complete disregard to age, race, nationality, or even guilt. Indeed, if great writing echoes great living, then Chuck—who was pushing sixty in those days—must have been a genuine German-born, American-bred stud.
Yes, for Chuck, life was about booze, women, writing. Let it be known that this writer shall make no attempts in discrediting Bukowski’s drinking. He was a master of this great art, and few could ever rival him.
However, this writer shall make three bold statements, for which he may (or may not) receive tons of hate mail. He respectfully asks any hate-mail writer to please do him the courtesy of sending a handwritten letter, with a genuine tongue-licked stamp, thank you very much.
Henceforth, the three bold statements:
1. This writer is better looking than Charles Bukowski. This statement, in itself, does not lend much credence, since Chuck would be first in line to admit that his looks did not stray far from a very handsome mutt. (Please Google "Charles Bukowski" and click on images.) But, since looks do play a role in getting laid, it does provide a nice segway to the second statement, which is:
2. This writer is a better lover than Charles Bukowski. Hard to prove, yes, especially since one of us is dead. Ideally, one could compile a list of all past lovers, use a standardized rating system through an array of questions, and then compare the scores. Since that seems like a pain in the ass, let me just say this: I’ve yet to fail in bringing a woman to orgasm (insert disclaimer here).
Which brings us to the third, and final, bold statement (this is the statement for which this writer expects to get hate mail):
3. This writer is a better poet than Charles Bukowski.
Two outta three ain’t bad.