Live Performance “Tryst @ Little Red Studio 05/2010” from Twisted Monk on Vimeo.

Twisted Monk’s website.  And on Twitter.

He’s a genius.  A motherfucking sexy genius.

So I was twatting* around at Twitter, when someone re-tweeted something by someone else, which I found amusing.  Quite witty, in fact.   So I clicked on this fellow’s name to check him out.  Oh and he was fabulous.  Simply, divinely fabulous.  So I started following him.  Which is how Twitter etiquette kinda-sorta works.

Low and behold, he quickly followed me back which pleased me ever so much-ly.  There in the midst of all those twatters* just twatting* away we exchanged sundry pleasantries.  Which, again, is how Twitter etiquette kinda-sorta works.  It was nice.  It was good.

I was living in a Twittering world.  And I am a Twittering girl.  (Think Madonna. You’ll get it.)

Now I was being a good girl, because on Twitter I feel a girl should mind her Ps and Qs … being as authentically well-rounded as she can, while discreetly** and prudently (but only occasionally) giving a peek up her skirt.

Then I get this private DM (direct message) from my new friend:

You are such a great writer! I really admire your work.

Of course I answered him, because I am always the epitome of polite behavior (don’t you know?):

Thank you.  That is very kind of you.

Of course I was dying to know … who? what? when? where? why?  What had this sweet gentleman read that caused him to reach out to me?  But a girl can’t seem to eager now, can she?  So I thought we were done.  Then he DMs me again:

If it’s okay to ask, how did you decide to follow me? I’ve known your writing for a while now and was struck seeing your name in my feed.

Well, I’m a polite girl by nature and would have replied no matter what he’d said.  BUT “I’ve known your writing for a while” really really really caught my self  interest. You bet it did.  Any writer likes to know they are noticed in any which way.  So I answered:

Someone re-tweeted you, I checked you out.  And I like your style.  It’s that simple.  But I’m hardly the superstar you make me out to be.

Of course, dear reader, I was absolutely glowing.  Writers eat this stuff up!  But you *do* see how insouciant my response was.  Don’t you?  He had to be impressed with my ultra cool, devil-my-care, nonchalant geniality.  Don’t you think so? Then he writes …

Well, as a man married to a blindingly hot cuckoldress (with all the fascinations that implies), you do have a certain celebrity status.

Mother Fucker!

(Oops.  My halo just slipped and there went my Gracious-Goddess patina right out the window.)

But I can’t help it.  Not only did this guy (who is very cute, by the way) trust me with his naughtiest secret of secrets …

… apparently amongst men who are “married to … blindingly hot cuckoldress[es]” I “have a certain celebrity status.”

What a sweetie.

There was more conversation which isn’t of interest here, so we will leave that between me and him.   I’m smitten, I’m forever his friend and he is just a darling, darling (very smart) man.

And I’m not saying he’s smart because he kinda-sorta adores me (as a writer–don’t forget, he has a hot cuckoldress to worship full time).  I’m saying he’s smart, because that’s why I followed him in the first place.  His tweets are savvy, well-constructed and edgy in just the right way.

BUT THERE’S MORE!

Mr. Anonymous Cuckolded Tweeter, with the permission of his cherished and beloved inamorata, has agreed to be interviewed by me.  I’m hoping to get together with him sometime next week.  And I know you guys.  Inquiring minds want to know:  How does that cuckolding thing actually work in real life?

Don’t you?  Come on, don’t be shy.  You can tell Ms. Angela.

xo

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*twat & twatter & twatting I lifted from Kathy Griffin.  She’s very funny.  And she’s on Twitter too.  And she doesn’t follow anybody!  I love that #sexybitch.

**Special thanks to Pervert Savant for teaching me to check my spelling for the correct usage of discrete/discreet.  I can’t and won’t tell you if he’s on Twitter, because it’s none of your business.  But he is here on my blog.

>>Special thanks to In Bed with Dr Sue™ for letting me steal #sexybitch from her.  Guess what?  She’s on Twitter too.

>>Special thanks to Twitter for hashtags (like the # seen in #sexybitch) which are just so much fun to use.

Today we mourn the passing of a beloved old friend, Common Sense, who has been with us for many years. No one knows for sure how old he was, since his birth records were long ago lost in bureaucratic red tape. He will be remembered as having cultivated such valuable lessons as:

– Knowing when to come in out of the rain

– Why the early bird gets the worm

– Life isn’t always fair

– And maybe it was my fault.

Common Sense lived by simple, sound financial policies (don’t spend more than you can earn) and reliable strategies (adults, not children, are in charge).

His health began to deteriorate rapidly when well-intentioned but overbearing regulations were set in place. Reports of a 6-year-old boy charged with sexual harassment for kissing a classmate; teens suspended from school for using mouthwash after lunch; and a teacher fired for reprimanding an unruly student, only worsened his condition.

Common Sense lost ground when parents attacked teachers for doing the job that they themselves had failed to do in disciplining their unruly children.

It declined even further when schools were required to get parental consent to administer sun lotion or an aspirin to a student; but could not inform parents when a student became pregnant and wanted to have an abortion.

Common Sense lost the will to live as the churches became businesses; and criminals received better treatment than their victims.

Common Sense took a beating when you couldn’t defend yourself from a burglar in your own home and the burglar could sue you for assault.

Common Sense finally gave up the will to live, after a woman failed to realize that a steaming cup of coffee was hot. She spilled a little in her lap, and was promptly awarded a huge settlement.

Common Sense was preceded in death, by his parents, Truth and Trust, by his wife, Discretion, by his daughter, Responsibility, and by his son, Reason.

He is survived by his 5 stepbrothers;

– I Know My Rights

– I Want It Now

– Someone Else Is To Blame

– I’m A Victim

– Pay me for Doing Nothing

Not many attended his funeral because so few realized he was gone.

If you still remember him, pass this on. If not, join the majority and do nothing.

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Disclaimer. I don’t agree with all of this.  But I do agree with a lot of it.

i.e. The not-so-subtle jab at Obama is not appreciated.

And if you knew the story behind the McDonald’s incident, you’d agree that was not a frivolous lawsuit … watch this when it’s on HBO again: Hot Coffee

Doubting Thomas?

What about Cinderella?

A pair of shoes changed her life.

So there!

At the Poetry Reading

John Brehm

I can’t keep my eyes off the poet’s

wife’s legs—they’re so much more

beautiful than anything he might

be saying, though I’m no longer

in a position really to judge,

having stopped listening some time ago.

He’s from the Iowa Writers Workshop

and can therefore get along fine

without my attention. He started in

reading poems about his childhood—

barns, cornsnakes, gradeschool, flowers,

that sort of stuff—the loss of

innocence he keeps talking about

between poems, which I can relate to,

especially under these circumstances.

Now he’s on to science, a poem

about hydrogen, I think, he’s trying

to imagine himself turning into hydrogen.

Maybe he’ll succeed. I’m imagining

myself sliding up his wife’s fluid,

rhythmic, lusciously curved, black-

stockinged legs, imagining them arched

around my shoulders, wrapped around my back.

My God, why doesn’t he write poems about her!

He will, no doubt, once she leaves him,

leaves him for another poet, perhaps,

the observant, uninnocent one, who knows

a poem when it sits down in a room with him.

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What do you think? I’ve been to my fair share of poetry readings, and most times rather than not, they can be quite yawn-inducing.  Yet I collect, read and write poetry.  I think, perhaps, poetry was meant to be read. It is of ink and parchment, and perhaps even kindles and monitors.

I guess what I’m trying to say is that I’d be looking at the poet’s wife’s legs too.  Wouldn’t you?

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If you like this poem as much as I do, visit Mr. Brehm’s website HERE.

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Thank you, Pervert Savant, for submitting this lovely piece for our PSO-etry collection. You sure do know how to pick ’em.

xo, Angela