Archive for the 'Twitter' Category

28
Nov
11

twitter sextiquette and the hermeneutics of my clitoris……or: “ain’t nothin’ to it, but to do it”–accurate?

I care little for rules or the ties that bind.

Particularly those that are the byproducts of social mores and puritanical constraints that seek to micromanage my preferred brand of sexuality and individualism, with little comment as to the efficacy of their method, or long-term sustainability of their practices.

I care little for rules.

I have oft laughed in the face of womankind’s attempt to impose a dogmatic schema to the loosely structured world of sexual politics; to the notion of sexual politics in and of themselves.

This “no kiss on the first date,” “no sex til the third” ideology that acts to strip from us our fluid sensuality, rob us of our spontaneity, and further solidify within us this frightening concept of good girl versus bad girl.

I care little for rules.

Be that as it may, I am forced to concede the existence of certain boundaries. Not rigid, stringent, asphyxiating boundaries that would have us chained and hog-tied to our seats, nickel clutched tight betwixt our throbbing knees.

But rather that ominous, invisible fence that keeps us suspended in the gray, protected from the nebulous, forgotten, distant world, shadowed in black. Mine is a world of small compromises; a tiny system of checks and balances that exists not for the sake for having limits, but rather acknowledging them because there ARE limits; the difference, perhaps, between dabbling in sexual deviance, and BEING a sexual deviant.

For while we make allowances for straying from the path, even forging your own path, the concept of there being no path is altogether too much for society to bear.

Conventional wisdom seems to indicate there needs be a finite method of distinguishing wheat from chaff; discreetly freaky librarian from open-assed slut.

And it has been a manageable feat to a degree.

At least in my own instance. I know of no examples where my own name has been bandied about the streets, tales of my mouth-sorcery heavy on the lips of young DC urbanites.

But the game has changed.

The advent of technology has increasingly blurred the lines between the Dos and the Don’ts.

And day after day, it becomes more difficult for even the most free-thinking among our female ranks to answer that all-important question: “Wait….wait…can I fuck him yet?”

Certainly, as educated women of a certain age, in a certain age, we’ve come round to the idea of a man’s awareness of our capacity to behave like whores (under the appropriate circumstances, of course)–liked it, encouraged it, even.

But to actually be perceived as a whore; to have a man legitimately THINK us whores—irrespective of how insignificant a man he may be—that is a fate to which the majority of us simply cannot yield.

Which brings me to my point:

Twitter won’t let my faux-chastity be great.

Not even a little bit.

Twitter is a setup from the getup.

Twitter introduces to our varied states of consciousness, and, by proxy, our pulsating, tumescent genitals, a chat room whose geographic locale is THE WORLD.

And here’s what happens.

You invariably come across that stranger, whose likes are your likes, whose humor is your humor, and whose avi is sexy as a motherfucker, and you’re hooked.

What begins as witty public banter moves to the discretion of your direct messages. But, texting is a far simpler platform, so you, of course, exchange numbers. And when your fingers are just too tired to type, why, calling seems like the natural conduit. And let us not forget that all-consuming desire to see his facial expressions and where, exactly he lives, so skype, necessarily, is the logical next step.

At first blush, one wants to make something like twitter comparable to online dating, but it is far, far different.

In online dating, people’s romantic interests are present from the start. It is the very reason they are in an online dating forum.  The urgency to find commonality with another person leaves little room for real build up. The goal is to see the person and get this potentially monogamous show on the road. So there’s no long-term intellectual stimulation. In online dating, because the object is to meet the person and establish a meaningful relationship, the ordinary “rules” are already in place. The traditional, time-honored chase the pussy, date the pussy, capture the pussy system of governance rules the day.

(I’ve never online-dated, btw. Not that I’m judging. I mean, I’m not. But.  Just to be clear…not my particular flagon of whiskey.)

But, on twitter, it’s all lighthearted.

Til it isn’t.

And the object of your cyber interest is, in all likelihood, some great distance away. And all you have is conversation. And build up.  Until the day you two determine to meet…….

And the annoying question springs to mind once more…..”Wait…..can I fuck him?”

I mean, do I even know this man?

Can I know a man if I’ve never seen his legs?

Does he travel from place to place slow-boning his top tweeters?

Does he have a list of brown-skinned, sassy girls whose orifices he’s connived his way into with his glibly well-timed wit?

Am I twitter easy? Like, how many tweets does it take to get to center of my mons?

And what are the mechanics of the twitter hookup? Will it be awkward? Do I wear drawes? Do I pretend I had something else in mind? Should I buy board games?

All of these (very legitimate) questions are dauntingly overwhelming in the macro.

But even when I make effort to fix my mind upon the very thing, the Universe responds with more questions.

Twitterboo shows up at the crib, at long last.

Twitterboo has a fresh haircut, clothes are decent, pants are the appropriate length beneath his ankles, no purposeful display of chest hair spilling forth from his button down.

My chemistry with Twitterboo is great. I like Twitterboo. He’s mad chill. I can easily see letting Twitterboo nestle that perfectly edged up head in my thighs’ mocha hollows.

I mean, from there, the problems can only be typical ones. The ones you encounter with men you’d meet anywhere. His dick doesn’t work. He doesn’t wash his ass. His uncircumcised member is hidden between the folds of his flesh-snuggie.

The ususal.

In which case the solution is easy: I systemically remove any hint of him from my life and behave as though he never existed.  

But, what if Twitterboo is good? What if Twitterboo, who has—from lands afar—followed the North Star across leagues of mountainous, arid desert terrain, all the way straight to my warm, quivering girlbox– is a beat master?

What if Twitterboo comes through to the crib and has the unmitigated gall to unleash Chernobyl-style devastation inside my vaginal walls? What if my shit starts to whistle a medley of Julie Andrews songs when Twitterboo withdraws his Harlequin-esque, glistening man-shaft?

Like, do we twitter-go-together now?

Is Twitterboo my real life boyfriend?

Is Twitterboo my cuff?

Is Twitterboo my interactive jumpoff?

The truth is, I don’t have answers to these questions.

Nary a one.

As is oft the case, the answer may, indeed be, that there are no answers.

At day’s end, my greatest act of folly may be posing the question of my twitter seduction to the Universe.

She can hardly regard me as a whore when she so diligently fucks us all…..

So I put it to you, Cyberspace….

Sweet-stroking the internet crush–

Twitter do or twitter dont?

 

19
May
11

because you’re never too old to be permanently scarred…..

so….this week, twitter was all awash with this accent challenge….i didn’t do one…butttttttttttt, it *did* give me the idea to record me reading an entry….why? because i’m a narcissist. if my voice annoys you too much, the published entry is below……..but…i *do* do voices…

ps..y’all know i’m not web-wise….there’s this annoying whistle in the background….but, i couldn’t record it over again….apparently, my entries are long as FUCK. who knew?

agnes final sound ii

I am fairly well-versed in the language of me.

That is to say—I get me. I get how I work; how I “do.”

I spend a great deal of time keeping to my own counsel.

You aren’t going to enlighten me on too much shit concerning the body of work that is me.

That said, a rather large part of being an adult—a well-socialized adult—is one’s ability to be receptive of criticism; particularly criticism coming from those that wish you well.

Right.

So my mama thinks I’m stuck up.

I’m not going to elaborate on this, as it’s ridiculous, but, that’s what my mother says—I’m stuck up.

Now, as the only child of a Southern Black woman, I, of course, trained myself, at an early age, to distinguish between sage wisdom and unfounded-potentially-hurtful shit.

But I lend considerable weight to anything my mother tells me.

Some of her advice gets thrown out with the wash, but never ever before I’ve turned it over in my mind and examined all the angles.

*****
I had been at my parents’ house an entire thirty-six hours before my mother accosted me with her most recent allegation of sadditty-ness.

I was certain the arguments my mother used in support of her assertion were fundamentally flawed, but, her accusations loomed dark and foreboding; eagerly awaiting any concession, or breakdown of my resolve—prepared to play vulture to my carrion.

Sunday morning came, however, with little to no incident.

And the day had started out pleasant, enough. My father, recuperating from surgery, had suggested that we skip church in favor of a restful morning at home. My mother, eager to tend to her flowerbed, had whole-heartedly co-signed.

And it was quite nice, actually. My father had ultimately found sleep in our den. My mother, sun-weary, napped in the chaise longue beside her bed. And finally convinced that our three dogs were no longer trying to murder each other, I, myself, was nearing slumber.

*****
The dogs heard her first.

All three had been tucked away with me on the third floor, but they’d heard her. One after another they went barreling down each set of staircases, barking in righteous indignation at the audacity of someone entering our home, uninvited.

But that was how Cousin Agnes always entered our home.

Just walked the fuck in.

What you should know about Cousin Agnes is that she is my father’s cousin. Like, fifth or sixth. I don’t really know as I prefer not to dwell on any genetic predeterminates that legitimately bind us. Cousin Agnes isn’t so much a relative, as she is a threat you wield over the heads of misbehaving children (e.g. “Keep it up…I’ma sit you over at that table with Cousin Agnes and ‘em.”)

While Cousin Agnes isn’t necessarily an unattractive woman (as I’m sure her five previous husbands will attest to), a cursory overview of her will let you know, straightaway, her elemental truth; a truth that will be confirmed the second she opens her mouth—

Cousin Agnes is hood.

Real hood.

Malt-liquor drankin’, misquoted-Bible-verse-interspersed-with-her-profanity spoutin’, hootie-hoo my dude we-fittin-to-go-to-the-grocery-store-and-cash-this-good-check-so-we-can-buy-us-some-stretchy-clothes-

Hood.

And she’s like, sixty.

Matter of fact, in my sheltered childhood, Cousin Agnes was my first indication that old people could actually be hood. I think I thought that hoodness was some shit that you eventually grew out of. Cousin Agnes destroyed that illusion for me.

Now, the most important thing you need to know about my Cousin Agnes is that she’s a whole lot of woman.

She’s tall—about 5’10, and stocky. Not obese or any other descriptor of gratuitously fat—just stocky.

But check this—

She seems bigger….on account of her voice.

Like, think Jim Carey’s “Vera” on In Living Color.

Cousin Agnes likes to call it “husky.”

But, on everything, I swear that shit sounds like she waits til low tide to emerge from the Deep, and feed upon the small children of aboriginal island-dwellers; like, twenty years ago, unbeknownst to the world, Cousin Agnes managed to get her hands on some deceased Andre The Giant DNA, and through the miracle of modern medicine cultivated some Andre The Giant stem cell in a petri dish until her clone Andre The Giant baby reached the age of maturation, when she promptly murdered him and used his dissected testosterone sacs to line the walls of her larynx—

Like….no bullshit.

‘Shit’s that deep.

Anyway-

Cousin Agnes was standing in our kitchen, nearly beside herself with fright at the onslaught of our raging dogs. I greeted her, warmly, and calmed the animals, offering her a drink and a seat. She refused.

“Uh uh. Where yo’ favvvva at? I wanna see yo’ daddy? Where yo mama? Where yo mama?”

I tried to explain to her that they were both asleep, but she was having none of that, and insisted I take her to my dad.

Begrudgingly, I led her up the back stairs, and nudged him awake.

As my father begin to engage her, I started to walk away when Cousin Agnes called after me: “Go get yo’ mama too! Wake huh up! I wanna see yo’ mama too!”

I bit my tongue, and walked in the direction of my parents’ bedroom. I reluctantly woke my mother, and let her know that we had company…and that that company was Cousin Agnes. I then beckoned the dogs to me, informing my mother that I would be upstairs.

That’s when I caught it.

My mother’s look.

She hadn’t uttered a syllable, but the narrowing of her brow said it all. Stuck up.

I met her gaze in silence, the unspoken language of her challenge clear. Turning stiffly back to the direction from whence I’d come, I returned to the den, three dogs in tow, my mother not far behind me.

Everything was going fine—well, typical of any Cousin Agnes visit—

I offered up commentary when I managed to manipulate my way through the veritable sea of her verbal ratchetry—

Through a series of well-applied pinches to my forearm, I trained myself not to laugh-outright, or visibly cringe at the cascade of horrors flowing from her mouth.

And things were going smoothly—and I was proving my mother wrong….when it happened.

Somehow my mother and Cousin Agnes had stumbled upon some salacious piece of gossip concerning a man they both knew who had left his wife for another woman.

My mother received the information with no real problem, but Cousin Agnes could not seem to get over the injustice of the man’s lover not being up to her apparently exacting physical standards.

Over and over she slapped the tops of her thighs with her heavy, open palms, protesting, “She ain’t even cute, doe!!! She ain’t even cute!!! Look, doe!!! She ain’t even cute!!!”

My mother, in her gentle voice, and I thought, rather patiently, tried to explain to Cousin Agnes—who now sat comfortably amongst our couch cushions like some retard giantess—that sometimes, appearances counted little in matters of the heart.

And even as my father and I nodded in tacit agreement, Cousin Agnes remained undaunted. “She ain’t even cute, doe!!!”

My mother was shaking her head in casual resignation, when Cousin Agnes perked up. I could nearly see the light-bulb go on in her thicket of unkempt, ratty braids, and my gut warned that I should fear it.

“But you know what doe,” she began, “Dat guhl is younga dan him doe…She is younga dan him.”

No one commented, and she continued. “And you know how dem young guhls like to do…they know what men like and they be givin’ it to ‘um…Dey be givin’ it to ‘um.”

In the next moment, my whole world would come crumbling down at my feet.

Cousin Agnes looked first to me, saying: “You know how dey do…” then looked to my father, saying, “Excuse me Jay-rome,” then half-cupped her left hand, covering the left side of her mouth, but absconding nothing from view. Her gaze returned to me as she made her open mouth into an oval, and proceeded to bob her head backward and forward.

I whipped my head away, pretending that I had not seen, what my racing mind was telling me I had. “Cousin Agnes!” I cried out, in pleading—

She didn’t give the FIRST FUCK…

Cause she did it again….

Simulated oral sex in the den of my parents’ home—the home my parents had lovingly built from carefully-spun dreams——on the Sabbath…A day the Lord God Himself had admonished us to honor; to keep holy. She simulated oral sex in front of BOTH of my parents…my mother AND my father…..

And she had done so, whilst looking directly at ME…looking directly into my thirty year old eyes for confirmation, for acknowledgment.

My father sat so quiet, and so still, but my mother wore a look of confusion on her face. I like to pretend that she was in a sort of fugue state—like her body had gone into shock to protect it from the trauma her whole being had just experienced.
But Cousin Agnes wouldn’t let sleeping dogs lie, cause she took their quiet as indication for her need to clarify.

AGAIN, looking to me, she called out my name, and said, “Fooler knows….BLOWJOBS…”

I’d liked————————to have knocked———————alla the shit in that room——books on shelves, trophies in cabinets, crystal in curios, chess pieces on chessboards———-I’ddddddddddd liked to have knocked allllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllla that shit down………………..

BITCH….WHAT in THE FUCCCCCCCCCCCCKKKKKKKKKKKK are you looking at me for?

WHYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYY in the MOOOOOOOOOOOOOTHERFUCK are you looking into MMMMMMMMMMMMYYYYYYYYYYY eyes, saying words like “blowjob” to my parents??????

Why?

Why?

And I was concerned, like, on a multitude of levels.

I didn’t know if she looked at me and saw like, some kind of neon halo of dick residue all up and around my person; I didn’t know if I’d been traversing this land, all these years, with the faint echoes of blowjobs-past nipping at my dick-sucking heels—-Why had she chosen me?

And what had she wanted from me?

Was there some expectation of high fives; of chest bumps? Were my parents gonna stand on either side of us as we formed a soul train line and did the give-head dance around my mother’s art collection?

I didn’t linger long in my mental landscape of uncertainty.

At THAT moment, I realized I didn’t give a damn what my mother thought of my temperament if it meant enduring one millisecond more of the indignity that aged broad had brought to my home.

I picked up as many of my dogs as I could carry, and ZackGalifianakisWalked my sweet ass the FUCK out.

Cousin Agnes bellowed after me in her hobo-baritone, but I did not look back.

I did not look back.

20
Apr
11

Let that (Twitter) boi cook….

One year ago, Linesister suggested I join Twitter.

I was reluctant, because I thought the premise was stupid.

I didn’t know why anyone would give a damn about up-to-the-minute shit I was doing with my life.

I certainly didn’t expect to give two cusses about what anyone else was doing with theirs.

But, as is oft the case, Linesister was right, and one year later I am, of course, firmly entrenched in the Twitter beast.

I prefer it to Facebook.

As a matter of fact, it is my refuge from Facebook. It is my refuge from many things that have the taint of real life upon them.

Twitter is where I go to talk to people I don’t know. There’s a quiet solace in the company of strangers that I underestimated when first I began.

And I’ve come to love it, and treasure it.

Which is precisely why I can’t understand why so many of you fuckers are mucking it up.

6 Things I need all Twitter participants to do or know:

1. Get your titties off Twitter.

Immediately.

Look. I don’t have a problem with titties. I can certainly appreciate that titties are a crucial staple in the lives of a significant Twitter contingent.

I’m not trying to take titties away from anyone.

You wanna show your cleavage in your avi, all the while beguiling the world with excerpts from your doctoral thesis to evidence how you are both sexy and profound— more power to you.

You wanna twitpic yourself in your I-make-bitches-hate-me dress— fine, do the damn thing.

But honestly. This is getting ridiculous. Yesterday, I saw THREE broads whose backgrounds were nothing more than pictures of them posing in bikinis.

What.the.FUCK kind of latch-key, thatch-roofed, mother-less, Southeast Asian bordello were you raised in that makes you think this is okay?

Bitch, you are naked on the internet.

And like, for free.

No one’s giving you a dime to see those free titties.

It’s not sexy.

And even it if is, the desperation of it all far outweighs any aesthetic.

Have you no one in your three-dimensional world to tell you that you look alright?

You gotta arm yourself with a swath of lycra and an iphone to achieve some tiny measure of validation in your life?

PLEASE get thee to a grandmother’s loving embrace, and entirely the fuck off my timeline before I wretch in my mouth.

2. If English is your first language, speaking it well should be a priority.

Stop getting mad when people hashtag your illiteracy.

Someone correcting your abject retardation shouldn’t upset you.

Being 35 and unable to read, while utilizing a program that specializes in communication via 140 characters or less should upset you.

I bet Twitter is frustrating as FUCK for some of you.

Maybe, instead of making my soul weep each day with your fucked up grammar (which I’ll interpret as dispositive proof of the American educational system’s failures), try developing a simpleton-friendly web program—perhaps one that makes liberal use of shapes and pictures as opposed to actual words—

Or, you know….

FUCKING SPELL CHECK.

3. Tyrese is NOT your life coach. If he is, you deserve whatever bullshit life you’ve got.

I’m not gonna lie.

Once upon a time, before I knew Tyrese could neither read nor write, or properly effectuate any semblance of deductive reasoning, I was rather keen on letting him “make me feel good on the inside.” *

But that was pre-twitter lust.

Today, Tyrese tweeted, “Atl if you’re hear…I’m on the air on V103…”

He told the world REPEATEDLY about his presence at “Barnes and NobleS.”

The man is on a BOOK TOUR and he doesn’t know a homophone from a xylophone.

He has made several appearances at the nation’s premier book retailer, and doesn’t know its name.

And he cautions us all: “As you move to the next chapter in your life remember.. You will never shine Tryna sit on somebody else SUN!!”

Someone on my timeline retweeted that. Beside it, she wrote, “Preach!”

Are you fuckin’ kidding me?

Look. I’m not gonna shit on Tyrese (anymore).

He’s rich, and successful, and I am a nobody with law school debt; he bests me in any capacity that is of value to the world in which we live.

But if you have bills like me, and retweet this man as though he’s some fount of new, Black intellectualism, you’re a low-functioning, generic battery-operated dildo.

I mean it.

If Jody motherfuckin’ Jo opens your eyes to some shit you ain’t never seen before, close them.

Post-haste.

4. I wish I had an interactive glass of ice cold water…maybe it could quench your palpable THIRST.

Listen. I love a Twitter crush as much as the next one.

Twitter is a place where people showcase their wit in concise, delicious snippets (and show their titties), therefore making it a veritable breeding ground for crush prosperity.

So, I get it. Crush on.

That said, these outwardly expressions of wanna-fuck-you-so-bad make me uncomfortable.

And you know why they’re outwardly, don’t you?

Cause she doesn’t.wanna.fuck.you.back.

The innovators of Twitter, in their infinite wisdom, made it impossible to direct message a person not following you; a decision—I noted a few weeks ago—for which many unsuspecting people ought to be grateful (seriously, you don’t want to know how many people I’d internet woo with slam whore antics should this function become disabled).

This is my point.

She won’t follow you¸ so you can’t direct message your tom fuckery for her eyes only. Your only remaining option one of public courtship, you smear the evidence of your XY chromosomal fail across my timeline, and the tragedy of your romantic, dehydrated desperation is clear for all to see.

I’m fairly certain that if a woman won’t follow you back on Twitter, she won’t reward your Arthurian Twitter gestures of chivalry with ass.

It’s not gonna happen.

@-ing her constantly, telling her how fine she is daily, preceding your retweets of her with overly enthusiastic declarations of her awesomeness won’t make tender her heart, or otherwise incline her to do it to you.

It will, however, encourage her to make note of your IP address in the event that a bitch comes up missing.

5. ATTENTION all persons with the following words in their bios—“sexy,” “pretty,” “model,” “mogul,” “rapper”:

Nope.

6. If a stranger incites within you extreme rage, compelling a series of angry tweets——Stop everything you’re doing and Dougie.

You are obviously carefree and winning at life, and as such, have elected to lose on Twitter.

For my money, a person who allows a complete stranger to get him/her Twitter-enraged is tantamount to the man who gets in a fight at the club after someone nudges him or steps on his shoes.

The shit might be annoying—hell, it might be infuriating—but odds are, it’s something that can be let go.

What the fuck do I look like letting a complete stranger—someone who doesn’t even know my real name—who is, no doubt, sitting in some darkened corner, thousands of miles away, thumb-typing ignorance on his phone at lightning speed, get me all tight in the chest over the fucking internet?

How the hell am I gonna get fiery mad over some shit this dude typed with this thumbs?

It’s not that serious.

And if it is, it sure the fuck shouldn’t be resolved over a medium whose logo is a big, periwinkle bird.

*sigh*

I just want us all to let Twitter be great.

*Monster’s Ball shudder-inducing Halle Berry quote.




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