blistered lips

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. 🤩😍😘

(i love you with all of my hard-on)

come to me, he said, my love
come to me and be my heart
my breath, my life, my wise companion
and sail with me on gilded wings
across a sky that knows no shame
into a world that knows no blame

be with me, he said, my love
be with me and be my tart
my bitch, my slut, with wild abandon
fuck my face and fingers, girl-whore
and ride my hard and leaking dick
to leave your cum upon it slick

i heard right, i knew, the first
i heard true and glistened all:
his breath, his life, his jumbled man-tongue
and sailed with him on gilded wings
across a sky that dare not see
into a world that could not be

where my bard was quick undone
his heart but figment’s fancy
and by his lust was held cheap ransom
fuck his face and fingers, did i
and took his shaft with cold constrain
his girl-whore now, mine self-disdain

seed then spent, his deed compleat
nought figment of mine fancy
my flesh did answer this heart undone:
an errant knight was he at best
i’d come to him, believed the lie
that crossed his heart and hoped to die

passion cold, stripped raw, unclothed
in my eyes, his lies struck mute
no chance for sway, he did abandon
this girl who’d sailed on gilded wings
who’d come to him, believed the lie
had crossed her heart, hoped not to cry

deeds of pilfered drupe thus wrought
from this bard, i took my leave
for breath, for life, mine own companion
i sailed away on gilded wings
across the sky that knew his blame
left this world: his loss, his shame

….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.”

“But…”

“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.

koko eats lipstick
YUM! babydoll heads! and sings
square apple carols

munchkins fed: in bed
paper read: wizard dead
(…there’s no place like home)
put on your real shoes, those ruby reds
(i won’t dance, don’t ask me)
Dorothy
(fairy tales can come true….)
we’re
gonna
paint
the
town
(gotta dance!)

green

someday
i will come for you
and we will go
away

those left behind
will talk about us
our callous hearts
our selfish desire

fugitives, we will fuck
our way free of them
while fucking them over
fucking convention
fucking expectation
fucking our hearts out

like they knew we would
like the said we would

fucking will be
our new religion
you cock will be my communion
my cunt will be your baptism

and we will be happy

like they knew we wouldn’t
like the said we wouldn’t

I ask myself the same question. No doubt, others wonder, too.

While you’re tall, it’s in a gangly, almost akward way.

You’re quiet–except when we’re alone. I think it’s because you know I am safe for you. At least that’s what I want to believe.

You do read. And I like that. You even read the books I give to you. I like that even more.You bring me coffee in the morning and think I’m cute, even desirable, with bedroom hair.

You like to surprise me with silly, inexpensive presents. Like the frog that measures rainfall. And the set of butterfly magnets. Of course, there’s the love notes and cards I find here and there.

You’re not afraid to cry with me, although sometimes I find it more contrived than honest. I guess you could be more introspective. But perhaps you’re working on that?

Sometimes we are passionate about the same movies. Other times not. Either way, they give us plenty to talk about.

You teach me things. And don’t think it unmanly to learn from me.

And you don’t try to get me to eat lobster or lamb.

I think that, as far as couples go, we are doing okay.

Don’t you?