So I finally saw my doctor Monday.  I wasn’t getting better — could barely talk, kinda-sorta sounded like Lauren Bacall.  And while some of you would find this incredibly sexy, most wouldn’t — thus, still not doing regular calls.  Anyway, I sounded so very bad when I called in the a.m., that the receptionist squeezed me in for an appointment that very day. 

So a few hours later I’m sitting up on that little table while the doc does her thing and gives me the dope.  Seems there’s a "bug" going around that just "holds on forever," and being viral in cause, it doesn’t respond to antibiotics.  But since I’d had this for two plus weeks, she decided I might have a secondary infection, compounded by stressed vocal cords from the exuberant coughing.  So she prescribed doxycycline hyclate and prednisone respectively.  I’m into the middle of my third day and things do seem to be clearing up.

In the meantime, when I’ve been feeling "up to it," I’ve taken a few short calls.  Those would be with guys who know I’ve been pretty sick and just want to kinda-sorta talk.  And don’t even want a kinky phone sex experience.  Imagine that!. 

Sweet Mr. Nerd would be one of those guys.  Being the sweet man he is, he indulged and coddled and commiserated — while I hacked and screeched and whined and pouted.  But, alas, all good things must come to and end.  And I suspect that in this case it was none too soon for Mr. Nerd.  So we’re winding down and he asks. "So what are your plans this week, dear Angela?"  I tell him that not much is going on except me drinking lots of fluids, eating even more chicken soup (thanks for the tidings and counsel, LUSCIOUS ONE) and religiously hunching over my  Vicks Personal Steam Inhaler.  Which I usually do while watching TV (very scary … this lowest common denominator ruling the airwaves).  Which reminds me … oh, and that I’m looking forward to seeing Sarah Palin interviewed on Larry King.

Ever benign and tender with my feelings, Mr. Nerd doesn’t tell me that it pains him to find the daily routine of his Phone Sex Goddess has been reduced to the hum drum.  He doesn’t tell me it saddens his heart (and perhaps softens his cock) that — forced by the necessity of illness — the highlight of my week just might be watching CNN. 

But he also happens to be a man of exceptional wit. 

So, without missing a beat, with nary a millisecond of hesitation, he answers (with tongue placed firmly in cheek): 

Goshhhh.  I hope she’s wearing leather.

Which just tickled my funny bone.  Because, between you and me, Mr. Nerd could care less what a gal is wearing.  He needs no paraphernelia, no idee fixes — leather, feathers, fishnet or otherwise — to be extremely hot and always sexy.   Thanks, Mr. Nerd, for being a stand up guy.  And standing by.  I owe you.

xo, Angela

… oh, and I may be able to work tomorrow.  Not sure yet, but I am starting to feel better and sound better.  So maybe … just maybe.

The Reality of Fantasy:  A Phone Sex Poem

The Call

 by Kim Addonizio

A man opens a magazine,
women with no clothes,
their eyes blacked out.
He dials a number,
hums a commercial
under his breath. A voice
tells him he can do
anything he wants to her.
He imagines standing her
against a wall, her saying
Oh baby you feel so good.
It’s late. The woman
on the phone yawns,
trails the cord to the hall
to look in on her daughter.
She’s curled with one
leg off the couch.
The woman shoulders the receiver,
tucks a sheet and whispers
Yes, do it, yes.
She drifts to the kitchen,
opens another Diet Pepsi, wonders
how long it will take him and where
she can find a cheap winter coat.
Remembering the bills,
she flips off the light.
He’s still saying Soon,
turning his wheelchair right,
left, right. A tube runs down
his pants leg. Sometimes
he thinks he feels something,
stops talking to concentrate
on movement down there.
Hello, the woman says.
You still on?
She rubs a hand over her eyes.
Blue shadow comes off on her fingers.
Over the faint high hiss
of the open line
she hears the wheels knock
from table to wall.
What’s that, she says.
Nothing, he tells her,
and they both
listen to it.

***

So don’t ever tell me that what I do doesn’t matter.  Because it does — and it’s the lucky PSO who knows this and honors it.

Lucky for us, Ms. Addonizio has a lovely and bountiful website.

Thanks to my sweetie, PQS, for sending this my way.  You know I adore you, don’t you?

xo, Angela

(if you’re wondering why I’m not taking calls, I’ve been quite ill with a respiratory infection … trying to get better and missing you much)