My Secret Admirer – Twelve
It’s time for this week’s LOVE LETTERS GONE WRONG secret admirer big reveal! This week we did have a winner, and that blogger along with the secret admirer wins a free copy of my ebook. Find out who that winner is by clicking on the trophy to your right.
Here’s a recap of Friday’s post as well as my response at the bottom. If you’d like a free copy of my ebook take a guess or send a love letter gone wrong to firstname.lastname@example.org.
Dear “Has been known to take it from behind,”
It seems like forever since I read any of your posts, besides that first one I read so that I could post something in my comment that showed I actually took an interest in your work. It seems like there’s an entire internet between us and even though I’ve never seen your face I’m sure it’s tastefully… applied. I sometimes imagine you as the bits of worn scrap metal at glass beach just jagged enough to tear, waiting for some idiot to take his shoes off, that idiot was me. I hopped all the way back to my rental car. It sucked. Look, this only kind of relates to my undying and universe exploding slash shattering affection for your incredibly sexy literary prowess in bed, I mean in blog… blog form. Wait, you also wrote a book? What? Anyways, I think we should “hook up” because we could be awesome together and I have an immensely prodigious lexicon, if you know what I mean. I can also use reference sites like thesaurus.com if you find that sort of thing hot, thermogenic even. I don’t know how much more convincing I have to be, I’m pretty sure I nailed it in the first three run on sentences.
So you’ll call me on Friday right? Rhetorical question. The answer is yes, you will. Not only because I’m such a fine candidate but also because I will write you unbelievably romantic love poems (I know you love that shit). This one’s for you baby. When I think of you it hurts only half as much as when you comment on my blog like your words are a hailstorm on my heart and the innuendo is an instant in a silent room and all I want to do is scream so that you might stifle me with a kiss but I know there’s nothing in this that won’t leave me listless and lonely and I know you don’t really know me, but I know me, but I don’t know me like that and it’s that doubt that’s done me in, kept me from calling you at all (I have your phone number, don’t freak out, you’re neighbor Jim gave it to me while I was outside your house, back to the totally bitching poem I’m writing off the top of my head). I’ve left it alone and it’s festering into gargoyle stone suspended from the edges of my shoulders watching intently and ever presently ready to rip my flesh out to remind me why I need this protection. Golem wings can sing goosebump hums across my skin but your hands could settle them if you ever got close enough. End poem.
Sincerely, I’m not telling you my name so you can get a restraining order.
Since I don’t know your name I have decided to call you…Rudolpho.
Rudolpho, I am overcome with emotion at the raw intensity of your poem. I too fester with love for you and I think of you most often when I am alone, like when I hide under the stairs in my basement and carve your name into my arm. Please don’t let the names of my past boyfriends worry you, I burned them off with a propane torch before cutting in yours.
Even though I’ve been in love before I know that this is the real thing, as I have never been moved to shave my armpits in anticipation of an epic round of monkey sex with anyone before. Along those lines I feel I should let you know that I was born in the seventies, so I hope you are into the “natural” look.
Based on what was discerned from the outline of the bulge in your Wranglers, my neighbor Jim is convinced that you are hung like a horse. I don’t have to tell you that he was absolutely elated when I offered to share you with him. He wishes to pass along his assurances that he will take good care of you as he rides you like a rented mule.
CLICK THE TROPHY ABOVE FOR THE WINNER AND THE HEART BELOW FOR THIS WEEK’S SECRET ADMIRER: