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Phone Sex 411

That’s gross. Do you talk to a lot of perverts?

You do what? How about a date?

Oh my God! Does your family know what you do?

I have the perfect fantasy for you: Lactation!

Do you get a lot of fetish calls? You know, I have this thing for feet.

More or less, these are some of the predictable reactions I get when revealing my avocation to the unordained. While some (including myself) might argue that phone sex has gone at least somewhat mainstream in recent years, it is still not a topic you want to be bringing up at cocktail parties. From the sincerely curious to the smugly judgmental to the stupidly horny, assumptions are going to be made. Not that I can complain too loudly. I’ve surely been boorish, myself, a time or two (okay, maybe three or four) to make unfounded assumptions. Yet, having experienced these ignorance-based reactions first hand, I cannot help but cringe when pushed into a corner by the overly-meddlesome.

When I abandoned my dream of graduate school (just temporarily, momma, I promise) and left behind my burgeoning corporate career to do phone sex (say it isn’t so, you wretched, wanton girl), my sister, bless her beautiful heart and bourgeois tendencies, bought me a mug, which on the outside wryly asks the question, “I went to school for years to learn to do THIS?” And, beloved sister of mine, I do cherish that mug. Notwithstanding my office supply fetish, it proudly sits–next to my Rolodex–the container-of-choice for my ink pens, letter opener, markers, nail files, orange sticks and sundry miscellanea. I cherish it because it reflects the reverent humor, easy flexibility, mutual validation, and even quirky spirituality that is so integral to whom I am and what I do both personally and professionally.

With the advent of the Internet and attendant proliferation of independent PSOs (phone sex operators), the definition of good Phone Sex has become increasingly subjective. Simultaneously, as our world hyper-rapidly expanded, erotica and pornography flourished, and the division between fantasy and reality blurred. Both a blessing and a curse, it can be quite exhilarating, yet, confusing and even a cause for dissent amongst its practitioners. Some like it hot, some like it cold. It’s that kind of thing.

(On a side note, I would think that–if nothing else–the very nature of this non-monogamous and inexhaustible Internet would be self-instructive: There REALLY is room for everybody. We have more than enough do-gooder types [You know the profile: The hypocrite who swears he is pure as the driven snow; yet, he only cums when fucking his wife by imagining her being raped by a double-shlonged reindeer.] doing their best to legislate, control, constrain, and restrict this last vestige of true freedom of expression. Just remember this: When we protect and champion each other, we protect and champion ourselves.)

Now, where were we? Oh, yes! So you’re in the mood for some wicked merrymaking. You’ve checked out the bathroom wall at the corner gas station, and though you could swear it used to be right there above the condom dispenser, there is no graffiti, “For a good time call Cocksucker Cathy.” With that avenue close, you decide to take the leap and call a Phone Sex Operator!

You want Phone Sex and you want it NOW! You want it? We got it! Hot phone sex, fantasy phone sex, domination phone sex, kinky phone sex, dirty phone sex, role-play phone sex, nasty phone sex, erotic phone sex, humiliation phone sex, tease & denial phone sex.

Phone Sex! Phone Sex! Phone Sex! … and even more Phone Sex!

How do you possibly weed through it all? How do you find the perfect first connection in all of that clutter? Well, brother, quite frankly, you don’t. You just say eeny meeny miney moe and take that leap of faith. After all, brother, how hard art thou? I’m a firm believer in going by the seat of your pants (or crotch of your pants) when things just need to get done (or you need to get done).

Basically, you are entering a marketplace as a consumer. Just like you might, time and again, visit the grocery store until you find the perfect cookie, you may have to shop for a while before you find, HER, the Phone Sex Chick that blows your mind and load like no other can. While that can be a royal pain in the butt, I guarantee that — until you find her –you will have lots of dirty fun along the way. It’s sort of like dating. It will cost you the price of a few burgers and shakes, but who’s counting dollars & dimes when you’re stealing some kisses and even copping a few feels along the way? And the pay off is that sooner or later you’re gonna get lucky!

Ho, ho, ho … oh so fucking lucky.

Take my word on it.

xo, Angela

PS. Just so you know, I could have listed this particular piece UNDER EVERY SINGLE CATEGORY, because I’ve certainly talked about all of this stuff with certain boys of certain proclivities.

PPS. Just so you also know: I know, you know, we know who you are. 🤩😍😘

When the Muse Wants to Fuck

….you might as well drop your panties and spread your legs. Because, sooner or later, he is going to have his way with you.

Last night, after a busy day of “much ado about nothing,” I was wired-tired. You’ve been there, right? Feeling all day like your left foot was nailed to the floor as your right one kept running you around in endless circles? Yeah, one of those days. So I was really ready to call it quits. Fresh from a hot bath I was looking forward to calling it a night and had been about the business of doing just that when my muse showed up.

“Not tonight, dear,” I told him. “I have a headache.”

But he was having none of it. Hopping up onto my shoulder, he pulled out his teeny-tiny muse-monkey and began spanking it. Not this time, I thought to myself, determined to ignore his lewd, rhythmic keystrokes—right there, beside my ear.

“You know you want it, Angela,” he whispered.

“No. No I don’t, Muse. Please go away.”

I looked longingly at the just-poured glass of merlot sitting on the kitchen countertop only a few steps away. I imagined the beautifully-bound anniversary edition of To Kill a Mockingbird awaiting me just down the hall—perched atop the pillows I’d just fluffed. I thought of the bedside lamp, its amber nimbus waiting to surround me in the sweetest of solitudes as I sank into my pillow to sip my wine and read a page or two of Harper Lee’s masterpiece before drifting off to higher ground.

“Go to your keyboard, Angela.”

Muse’s voice had taken on that sexy growl, the seductive tenor that always makes my little slut-digits quiver. I whimpered. He chuckled—that familiar sleazy snarl of a chuckle. Oh, how I hate you, you insatiable bastard. As if he could read my thoughts, Muse grunted, spit a gob of ink on his little quill and stroked faster. We both watched the jetty fluid oozing from between his pumping fingers, smearing across his knuckles.

I was getting hot—hot to trot right over to my keyboard and writhe, I mean write. The raunchy little raconteur inside me began to tremble. I wanted Muse’s hot jizz to conjugate and punctuate and catenate me. And his grizzled sneer told me Muse knew it.

“Nouns, adverbs, adjectives.”

“Muse, please stop. You know that sentence is incomplete.”

“Then fix it, Angela. You know you can’t resist.” His breath, smelling of parchment and indigo, blew across my fevered face. “Get your panties off and get your horny fingers over to that fucking computer and diddle with that fragment.”


“I know, baby. I’ll make it good. Remember the old days? When we did it on everything? Index cards, notebooks, legal pads, steno pads and even napkins. Remember how you liked being bent over that Underwood you found at the yard sale?”

“Okay, Muse. Damn it, you’re right. Do me. Bend me like a bitch over that keyboard and make me your whore. Shove that fragment in front of my face and have your way with me. Use me like the pencil-pushing slut (virgule) strumpet (virgule) tramp (virgule) harlot that I am.”

“I knew you’d give it up,” Muse sniggered as he positioned me in front of the computer. “Now, you filthy little ink-slinging Pandora, listen to this.”

Hunched over the keyboard I opened wide as he started pumping it into me: “Participles, linking verbs, superlative adjectives… You want more?”

“Give it to me, Muse. Give it to me fast and hard and dirty.”

“Grammar, punctuation, conjunctions, interjections, gerunds…”

“Oh, yes! That’s it. Do me. Pound it in to me.”

“Factitive verbs, predicate nominatives, indefinite pronouns, past participles, appositive phrases …”

Muse had me where he wanted me. He knew the dirty truth about the both of us: That I am his whore and he is my whoremonger. It’s been that way since I first picked up a pen. And so I wrote and I wrote and I wrote. Until his profane solicitations became the rhythmic movement of my sticky little fingers across the keyboard and once again, as he always does, the Muse had his way with me.

Stigmata: Erotic Humiliation

Humiliation is the beginning of sanctification. -John Donne

A while back, I tackled this topic for the book, Sex Kitten Presents The BDSM Issue. In writing that essay, Erotic Humiliation is Not an Oxymoron, I took a personal journey, an internal retrospective of sorts, recalling my initial shock upon receiving such a request and my eventual delight (and maybe even a bit of sexual excitement) with this particular form of domination.

I wrote:

The slave brings his desire to be dominated and the Mistress brings her dictionary and thesaurus, because it is her facility with language which authenticates her authority in this empyreal dungeon.

It’s no secret that I deeply believe in the power of words. They are, after all, what saved me so very long ago and far away. When I was too small, the world was too big and too many caretakers were impotently wicked and/or emotionally anemic. Even today, a library is consecrated ground for me–my church, my mosque, my synagogue, my cathedral–my sacred place of transformation.

And yes, at certain times, my dungeon.

Think about sex: the sex you do have and then the sex you think about having. I would bet that, regardless of your particular kink (high heel fetish? spanking? hard fucking? cuckolding? controlled masturbation? cross dressing? romantic sensuality?), the sex you think about having includes a lot of verbiage.


  • Rub your dripping prick down the length of my stiletto heel. That’s it. Now take the tip, just the tip, and run it around the ankle strap. Slowly, very slowly.
  • You know you’ve got it coming. Over my knee. NOW! Hmmm. Should I use this ping pong paddle or my hand? Such a tender little ass.
  • Beg for my fat dick, you little slut. Spread those legs like a dirty little whore and jerk off your clit. Beg for my fat dick, and then I’m going to ram it into you so hard that you you’re going to cry like a bitch in heat.
  • I love you, baby, but I need big cocks and lots of them. So get in between my legs and clean up the mess, baby. Marcus and Jerome fucked me sooo hard. Look how swollen my cunt is. Lick it baby. Make it feel better.
  • Do you like it when I wrap my little hand around this thick man-cock of yours and stroke it like this? Oh, you’re throbbing. What if I rub my pretty little French nail back and forth every-so-lightly across the frenum?
  • Oooh…your cute little satin panties feel so good between your little sissy stick and my wet pussy. But I think little panty sluts deserve a good fucking. Go get the strap-on, sweet bitch-girl.
  • I love you so much, darling. Fuck me harder, my beautiful lover. I want your cum deep inside of me, honey. I need it. I need it so bad.

See what I mean? (and if you don’t, you might want to schedule an EEG)

Anyway, for those of you who haven’t run off to call your neurologist, can you understand how verbal abasement can up the ante for the submissive man or woman? And for some, perhaps even be a more-intoxicating form of domination all by itself? More powerful than whips and chains? And is particularly apropos when the dungeon is virtual, a creation of the imagination, the meeting of two minds? Two well-developed, very kinky brains?

I also wrote:

This is BDSM without the net, unconditional love on Prozac, Creatine-enhanced tough love.

And I believe it.

Some of the most intense phone domination sessions I’ve participated in have been humiliation fantasies. Meaning that I have almost dived –and perhaps even did a very feminine swan dive– into subspace with the target of my verbal venom on more than one occasion. What Tom Petty calls “free-falling.”

Done correctly (dispensing “tough love” requires a measure of love, of trust, of mutual respect), Erotic Humiliation can turn the known world upside down for both Mistress and Slave–defying physical boundaries, transcending emotional and psychological bastilles.

It is a thing of great beauty and deep mystery.

And it all starts with words. Simple, yet all-powerful words.

Now and forever. Amen.

Banned in Boston, Condemned in Cleveland

Just when you thought it was safe to go back into the Library: My 451 on Freedom of Speech, Libraries, The First Amendment and Banned Books.

A book is the only place in which you can examine a fragile thought without breaking it, or explore an explosive idea without fear it will go off in your face. It is one of the few havens remaining where a man’s mind can get both provocation and privacy. ~Edward P. Morgan

In a perfect world, those who screw with The First Amendment would be sentenced to careers-without-parole as testers in ball gag factories. And why not? Why not let them see what it feels like for a change. Just a thought. Or maybe they want to take that away from us too?

Sadly, when it comes to Freedom of Speech, sometimes the last place we’ve been able to find it is in our libraries.

Which seems kind of weird, don’t you think? Shouldn’t at least The Library be hallowed ground? A quasi-church for those of us who actually know how to think on our feet and our knees? And even in between? For those of us who believe that truth is earned, truth is fluid, truth is personal? For those of us who believe that truth is found in life’s freely-given gift of perpetual learning? For those of us who know we will bleed more than we will ever learn, yet pick up the gauntlet anyway?

Because we know that apprenticed truth is the very marrow of all that makes us human? That suffraged truth is ours to keep forever? And that these self-learned truths are what truly sanctify us, make us whole, make us real? Because we know that human-ness and sanctification are one and the same?

Because we know that you can’t borrow truth: It just won’t stick to you. Or inside of you. Or up for you.

But some people try to do just that, over and over again. Unable to find the path, unwilling pay the price, looking for an easier, softer way — and missing the irony of their very own actions — they cling to their cookbooks, their bibles, their leaflets, their doctrines, their scrolls, their index cards, their cheat sheets.

Forsaking the wisdom of their very own hearts, ignoring the axiom No Guts, No Glory, they take the easy way out (instead of the harder way inside), looking to some Petrarchan authority to tell them what to think, what to believe, how to act. And they know they are right: Because they’ve got the rules now. They’ve got the rules and, by golly, everybody else better start living by them or else.

And so they set about the business of minding everybody else’s business. What else can you do when you’ve finally got the rules? What else can you do when you know better than everybody else? What else can you do when you’ve been, born again in the stagnate waters of vainglorious superiority, carved anew from the petrified rock of pseudo-enlightenment?

And the dirty little rat bastids just won’t leave our books alone. Forgetting that the very reason they know they are right and we are wrong is because they read it somewhere and that makes it true, imagining some knighted prerogative to “go forth and cleanse,” they slither into our libraries unannounced (but always invited) to bite the hand that originally fed them.

I’m just kind of sick of it. Books of all types, sizes, shapes and subject matter have repeatedly disappeared from the hallowed shelves on this most-American of institutions time and again. Thanks to the blessed and all-knowing storm troopers, we have to repeatedly fight for the right to read.

So let me ask you this: If someone takes a book away from me, do I get to take one away from them? Do I get to decide for them, like they want to do for me, what they shall read? Because I am the moral conscience for the world? Because I know better than you and them and him and her? And do we do this—tit for tat—until there are no books left? None to be found anywhere, every last shelf picked clean?

Just something to think about as Banned Books Week draws to a close. And I do hope you think about it. Think about it all year round. Think about a world stunted by intellectual pygmies who want to steal every idea ever found in a book, because they’ve never had an original one of their own, and it scares the hell out of them.

Think about a world without music, without poetry and even without prayer, because original thought is original sin…and we can’t have that, now, can we?

Think of a world, of all the worlds, contained inside the covers of each and every single book.

Think about all of this when…

…you walk into a library and your heart thrills at all the possibilities.

…you smell the musty books in your grandfather’s den and remember his smile.

…read a Shakespearian sonnet to her and see the look of love in her eyes.

…you grieve the ending of the best book ever as a last chapter looms ahead.

…you run across an old school book and remember how autumn always smelled so new.

Think about it.

Vanilla Mythology

Anybody who believes that the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach flunked geography. ~Robert Byrne

Was it Mrs. Gump who said Vanilla is as Vanilla does?

What I am proposing with this simple little entry is that quite probably the term vanilla (when applied to sexuality) just might be on the verge of vernacular extinction.

Case in point: I was recently discussing said topic with a college student I am tutoring (yes, he does flirt and yes, I do tease) when he told me that, “These days, if you’re not kinky, people think you’re weird.” I got such a kick out of that, as you might imagine. Particularly since this certainly wasn’t the case only a few years ago when I, myself, was a student!

But you have to admit that my little friend could very well be onto something here. And it emphasizes my rather vague—but nonetheless valid—suggestion that, just perhaps, when it comes to the difference between vanilla and kink we might just be splitting hairs.

His comment got my admittedly little (but always industrious) brain to pondering upon the glorious games boys and girls have forever played. (The problem for the boys is that nobody has ever told them that the girls always win. They—aching members in hand—go directly to jail and do not pass go, while we—oblivious and sexy in our nylons and heels—are busy buying Park Place and building little red hotels.)

Another gentleman recently regaled me with stories of his search for a Mistress throughout the 1960s and early 1970s, when even finding reference to such things was next to impossible. Yet search he did, eventually exchanging long-distance missives with a number of “incognito” Pro-Dommes.

So maybe things weren’t always as vanilla as we’ve supposed? Perhaps kink is all a matter of one’s particular perspective? Could it be that the only difference between then and now is that rather than hiding or burying our sexual proclivities, we embrace them?

Wasn’t it Janis Joplin that said, “Freedom is just another word for nothing left to lose?”

Anyway…just some food for thought.


Female Domination

As well as being the title of Elise Sutton’s long-awaited and well-received book, Female Domination is rapidly becoming the sex du jour for an ever-increasing number of mainstream couples. Along with other out-of-the-closet carnal intimacies such as fetishes (feet & toes, nylons, leather, smoking….), homosexuality (Shhh! Don’t tell the republicans!!), masturbation (mutual and solo), strap-on sex (Surely, dear female reader, you knew this?), and the widely embraced metrosexual phenomenon (Google “sissy” or “feminization” or “panty boy.” I dare you!), the male desire to surrender control to an erotically powerful woman is no longer the “dirty little secret” it once was.

Being currently (and ever so blissfully!) immersed in Ms. Sutton’s book, and having a certain proclivity toward Dominant Phone Sex, I find this to be a singularly delicious expansion of the ever-evolving sex games boys and girls like to play. In other words, this is not your father’s phone sex any more! In fact, this is not even your father’s (or even your mother’s, Goddess forbid!) wet dream! The playing field has not only been leveled, but, irrevocably, skewed. And the allure of that sexy umpire-ess ordering you, a lowly bat boy, to crawl to third base and kiss her leather boots, is just too intoxicating to resist.

While I would never lay claim to being an expert in human sexuality, I am in the business of creating fantasy. More than occasionally I not only find myself with a front row seat from which to purview the conventional and not-so-conventional desires of the submissive male but am the privileged Phone Mistress who will mind-fuck him into subspace. Submissive men come in all shapes and sizes and flavors and perversions. What I find so delightfully disarming about these exquisite creatures is that they are –nine times out of ten– men of serious substance and quiet dignity. I can always count on them to be polite, congenial, accommodating, quick-witted, and downright, intoxicatingly clever. These men, over-all, are a sweet breath of fresh air. They have no hidden agendas. They dwell confidently and authoritatively in their every day and relatively well-balanced lives. And it is, indeed, a good life: Fulfilling, successful, accomplished…perhaps, even self-actualized. In fact, if we daughters had been raised by fathers like these, there would be no need for Jungian therapists, motivational gurus, self-help books, or Twelve Step recovery programs.

And, therein, beloved kinksters, lies the rub! When one is perceived as “in charge” in his everyday life, where does he go to find that sexual rapture that only can be realized when we give up control? While, courtesy of the Internet, we are all experiencing an expanding sexual consciousness (Even if to simply know, “You are not alone”), the submissive male has somewhat of a quandary on his hands. Most likely he has presented himself to his inamorata as, at the very least, a vanilla lover, and even more likely, an aggressive one. After all, that is what is expected of the “normal” man, right? While he and the rest of us are realizing that our nasty secret desires are neither as nasty nor secret as we once thought, he finds himself unable to bring this au courant flavor to the sexual table he, himself, has set. How does he tell his dinner partner (Perhaps, his cherished wife of 10 or 20 years?) that his palate now craves spicier fare?

I often tell my submissive callers that they are really just romantics on steroids. Even after a lifetime of pursuing, courting, loving, fucking, and perhaps marrying women, a man continues to be both perplexed and enamored with the ever-illusive Feminine Mystique. Not to torture a cliche’, but as has been the case since Eve bewitched Adam (Honestly, how much sweet-talk do you really think it took?) into eating her forbidden fruit, women have been dragging men around by their dicks. This really isn’t anything new; its just been “super-sized,” so to speak. Even in a situation where the guy is supposedly the dominant, let’s not fool ourselves, ladies and gentlemen. If his lady friend does not concede to dressing in evocative slut-wear, painting her lips cock-sucking red, donning the proverbial ball gag, and submitting to a bit of elaborate rope binding (not to mention some delicious bottom spanking), “Master” is not going to have an orgasm anytime in the foreseeable future!

There are as many variations to the D/s (Domination/submission) relationship as there are enthusiasts. This is the party of the season, and it seems everybody from the bootblack (male) to the CEO (female) has shown up. So here we are, all at the same party, just wearing different party hats. From the sensually sublime to the viscerally extreme, name your poison: Body worship, face sitting, bondage, forced feminization, cock and ball torture (cbt), orgasm denial & control, cuckolding, erotic hypnosis & mind control, humiliation (verbal &/or public), toilet training, objectification, and more, so very much more…it’s here for the taking.

Wallflower type? Looking for a little objectification? Grab your dick, take a seat, and don’t you dare move a muscle! So you think you’re the life of the party and wanna be Mistress’s party favor? Dangle that pretty pink lampshade over your head and jump up on the coffee table for some contemptuous browbeating while you squeal like a pig. What? You’re looking for the buffet? Right over here, darling! Now, put your head back and Mistress will just take a seat right here on your face. Mmmm…. Yes, it is a nice spread! And you? You say you’re not a guest, that you’re the pinata? Oh! They’re waiting for you in the dungeon. Just crawl down those stairs and around the corner. That’s right. Follow the smell of leather. No, it won’t hurt much.

Not much into parties? More of the homebody type?


If you have been a reasonably well-behaved partner in the course of a long-term relationship and think your ladylove is ready to meet the new & improved submissive you, you might want to start with some user-friendly (pun intended!) reading material. Elise Sutton’s book, Female Domination, is an excellent starting point. Because the author practices the FemDom lifestyle (she is married to her submissive) and regularly counsels female-dominant couples (her educational background is in psychology), the material she presents is backed by both personal and professional experience. Giving readers an intimate, firsthand peek into the everyday lives of “normal” couples who just so happen to be ardent practitioners of female domination, she presents an eloquent argument for the logic of the female-dominant relationship. Combining passionate commentary with a quiet spiritualism, Elise shares her personal history and evolution, examines the continuing social trend toward female empowerment, and explores the psychological “rightness” of male submission. This is a book from an intelligent heart that will speak to you and your lady’s emotions, intellect, and (keep your fingers crossed!) libido.

Need I say more? Now, go buy that book before I have to bitch-slap you!

This is Your Brain. This is Your Brain on Fantasy

The gossip around the water cooler has it that, contrary to popular consensus, intercourse is not the cardinal sex act of human beings.

The Chatty Cathy gleefully imparting this particular tidbit went on to say that the ultimate sexual act is masturbation, because, after all, it is a “one hand operation,” and we don’t need anybody around to “pull it off.”

“You know what they say,” Scuttlebutt Sam snickered in agreement, “Ninety-nine percent of us masturbate and the other one percent is lying about it.”

“Yeah,” Flibbertigibbet Frannie chimed in, “You know what Woody Allen said, ‘It’s having sex with someone you love.’”

You have to admit that — jabber jaws that they are — Cathy and her buddies do have a point. Let’s just hope they don’t point it at us! Of course, being a Phone Sex Operator gives me a kind of a “fly on the genitalia” perspective on this sort of thing. (The beat goes on, if you know what I mean.) But I’m not about to share it with these gossipmongers. While they flap their jaws and chortle and titter, let’s you and me sneak off to the coffee shop around the corner for a Frappuccino, and I’ll give you—but only you—the real scoop.

Make sure to bring your wallet, darling, because you’re buying, of course. You know, I always did like you.


There we go. Comfy? Good. No, don’t sit too close; scoot over just a tad.

Yes, that’s much better. Now where were we? Oh yes, masturbation.

Let’s face it, mi amigo; you’d have to be dumber than ditchwater not to figure out that self-gratification is the favorite sexual activity of Homo sapiens. What the water cooler gang failed to mention when they were busy wagging their frivolous, pink tongues is the brain-work that goes into a feisty little round of masturbation. Don’t look so surprised. Surely, you knew this?

In comparison, fucking is the easy stuff of sex—at least it is once you get past the butterflies, general ambiguity, and extra five pounds you’ve recently acquired. Ok, I’ll admit that there is a bit of a “catch 69” with the hanky-panky of conjugation; but once the little peccadilloes have been dealt with it’s pretty much easy sailing!

After all, everyone needs and desires a measure of tummy-tickling now and then. We hunger for the intimacy of flesh on flesh. Not to mention, the kissing part is pretty nice. All we need is two bodies, a fair-to-middling amount of willingness, and a mutual attraction to get things started. Sometimes, we are so eager for a bit of the bouncy-bouncy, we even (shame on us!) forgo the mutual attraction part.

But singular sex is an “intercourse” of a different color. The glib patter and off-handed remarks of our water cooler pals just doesn’t do it justice. When it comes to masturbating, we are much more than naked apes. We are fully-realized human beings using every God-given brain cell, because that is, after all, what will get us from here to there. And we frantically want to get to there.

And just what are those busy little brain cells up to, pray tell? Well, they’re up to the beeswax of fantasy, of course! They know what we want, know what we need, and are hell-bent on getting the job done. And getting us done! This is us-focused and us-blameless unconditional love. Why not wallow in it once in a while? And we better appreciate it, because—in lieu of a hot-to-trot lover beside us, atop us, behind us—these little eggheads are all we’ve got. They’ve got us by the balls and the tits, and we’re loving every minute of it.

These little cerebral prodigies know us better than we know ourselves, and certainly know more about us than a hot-to-trot lover ever could. Tenacious and constant, they feed on our deviant fetishes and profane desires (Talk about brain food!), and then serve them back to us, delicious and dirty with a cherry on top. (Yum! Yum! Dessert always was my favorite part of the meal!)

What I’m trying to say, as I finish off this Frappuccino, is that we all need the magic, the thrill, the escapism of fantasy. It starts with Mother Goose and never goes away. We look for it in the books we read, the movies we see, even the dreams we dream. What’s wrong with looking for it in a steamy round of solo sex from time to time?

So, when it comes to sex, why not let our brains do the work once in a while….while our fingers do the walking?

Go ahead and rack your medulla oblongata! It’s begging for it!

Now, we need to get back to the water cooler.

Oh…and don’t forget to leave a tip.