ABBOTT: Super Duper computer store. Can I help you?

COSTELLO: Thanks I’m setting up an office in my den and I’m thinking about buying a computer.

ABBOTT: Mac?

COSTELLO: No, the name’s Lou.

ABBOTT: Your computer?

COSTELLO: I don’t own a computer. I want to buy one.

ABBOTT: Mac?

COSTELLO: I told you, my name’s Lou.

ABBOTT: What about Windows?

COSTELLO: Why? Will it get stuffy in here?

ABBOTT: Do you want a computer with Windows?

COSTELLO: I don’t know. What will I see when I look at the windows?

ABBOTT: Wallpaper.

COSTELLO: Never mind the windows.. I need a computer and software.

ABBOTT: Software for Windows?

COSTELLO: No. On the computer! I need something I can use to write proposals, track expenses and run my business. What do you have?

ABBOTT: Office.

COSTELLO: Yeah, for my office. Can you recommend anything?

ABBOTT: I just did.

COSTELLO: You just did what?

ABBOTT: Recommend something.

COSTELLO: You recommended something?

ABBOTT: Yes.

COSTELLO: For my office?

ABBOTT: Yes.

COSTELLO: OK, what did you recommend for my office?

ABBOTT: Office.

COSTELLO: Yes, for my office!

ABBOTT: I recommend Office with Windows.

COSTELLO: I already have an office with windows! OK, let’s just say I’m sitting at my computer and I want to type a proposal. What do I need?

ABBOTT: Word.

COSTELLO: What word?

ABBOTT: Word in Office.

COSTELLO: The only word in office is office.

ABBOTT: The Word in Office for Windows.

COSTELLO: Which word in office for windows?

ABBOTT: The Word you get when you click the blue ‘W’.

COSTELLO: I’m going to click your blue ‘w’ if you don’t start with some straight answers. What about financial bookkeeping? You have anything I can track my money with?

ABBOTT: Money.

COSTELLO: That’s right. What do you have?

ABBOTT: Money.

COSTELLO: I need money to track my money?

ABBOTT: It comes bundled with your computer.

COSTELLO: What’s bundled with my computer?

ABBOTT: Money.

COSTELLO: Money comes with my computer?

ABBOTT: Yes. No extra charge.

COSTELLO: I get a bundle of money with my computer? How much?

ABBOTT: One copy.

COSTELLO: Isn’t it illegal to copy money?

ABBOTT: Microsoft gave us a license to copy Money.

COSTELLO: They can give you a license to copy money?

ABBOTT: Why not? THEY OWN IT!

(A few days later)

ABBOTT: Super Duper computer store. Can I help you?

COSTELLO: How do I turn my computer off?

ABBOTT: Click on ‘START’…..

_____________________________

(via my email.  Thanks, sis!)

xo, Angela

I think I forgot something.  Hmmm …

Oops.  Were you looking for Phone Sex? 

Have I got a girl (or two or three or even more) for you!

Naughty Natalie 18: A sweet & nasty Fuck Slut.   CLICK HERE

Big Bodacious Bridgette:  Hot! Wet! And waiting for YOU!  CLICK HERE

Flaming Embers: Hot Cougar entertains your fetishes.  CLICK HERE

Insatiable Goddess:  It’s HER world & you are only in it. CLICK HERE

 

Really, when it’s all said and done, it’s really true that, "it’s only kinky the first time."  I can easily recall every exquisite detail of the first time a boy put me on my hands and knees to have sex.  Oh my, oh my.  I was barely past virginity and I thought I’d be marrying this boy and having babies in the future.  He was a hulking giant (6’4′) of bulk and brawn, and I was a little thing of 105 pounds.  I needed his permission and his man-hungriness lust to encourage me, show me the way.  To teach me to be kinky.  And at that time, being on my hands and knees — naked! — was very kinky, indeed. 

I felt dirty.  I felt slutty.  I felt fucking wonderful.  He could see me, all of me, lusty and lewd and hungry.  Oh, I was so dirty, dirty. dirty.  And he knew it.  And it made his fucking cock so hard to see me losing control like that.  Right there in front of him.  Right there atop my own mother’s coffee table, where he could fondle me and finger me and touch me and eventually … fuck the living daylights out of me.

Later — think of Diane Lane sitting on that bus in ‘Unfaithful’ — over and over again I’d replay what we’d done, how bad I’d been, how dirty and hot I’d felt and how good it was.  Oh it was soooo good to be bad.  It was so damn good and I wanted more, more, more.  And so we continued to learn, explore and stretch our sexuality in new and devious and dirty ways.

My passion (and lust) for that boy eventually waned.  No marriage, no babies.  I was off to college; off to bigger and better things.  I was off to open up the world — open it wide for myself and all my dreams.  It was the only path I could take, but I’m so glad I didn’t know that until it was upon me; that in my innocence and blush of first love, I was able to submerge my "good girl Catholicism" deep into my Delphic heart and learn the joy of "feeling dirty" with this boy so eager to teach me.

What amazes me is that these numbered of years later — internet-enlightened and supposedly sexually wiser than the "free love" generation — so many of us walk one way and talk another when it comes to kinky, fetish-y, dirty-ish S E X.  I know you’re doing it!  I know you’re doing a helluva lot of it!  I specialized in Kinky Phone Sex, Fetish Phone Sex and FemDom Phone Sex.  So don’t you go forgetting that.  Not even for one minute.  I’ve got your number!

Well, er, you’ve got MY number.  Semantics.  Let’s move on.

But really — and I do mean REALLY — think about the porn you access, think about what YOU think about when you masturbate.  I certainly don’t masturbate to vanilla scenarios. NOT EVER.  And I’m pretty sure you don’t either.  Come on … fess up.  You can tell me all about it.  Or maybe you conveniently don’t remember/think about the particular bent piece of brain  candy you were chewing away at the last time it was hands-on solo?

I say "conveniently" because I used to do that.  Guilty as charged!  I’d have this horrifically perverse psycho-drama playing in my head as I, as the boys say, "rubbed one out."  I would get hot and itchy and crazy-lustful.  Which transferred into a seriously out-of-this-world breath-taking orgasm. YUMM-FUCKING-Y!  Then I’d think to myself, you’re a bad girl.  Shame on you. There is something wrong with you.  You are disgusting.  And so I’d promptly and ever-so-efficiently forget it, erase it, deny it.  Gone, gone, gone.

And wouldn’t you know it?  There it would be, right back where it belonged: that bright & shiny Halo right there atop my good little Catholic school girl head.  A little crooked, perhaps, but none the worse for the wear.  Now that all that "naughtiness" was for all intents & purposes erased, I could go about the business of being conventionally normal.  Just like everybody else.  Which is quite the trick isn’t it?

The slippery part of this business is that — when our halos are back in place — we’ve really do forget.  It’s an intermittent amnesia of sorts (because you can bet we’ll revisit those vile scenarios and nasty thoughts sooner rather than later … and often) which affords us quite the lofty spot from which to express our shock, our disgust at "those other people" with the "weird fetishes" and "forbidden desires" and "perverse kinks."

Which is just silliness. Because one man’s Panty Fetish is another man’s BDSM is another man’s Body Worship is another man’s CFNM is another man’s Strap-On Training is another man’s Public Masturbation, is another man’s CBT is another man’s Forced-Bi is another man’s Castration is another man’s Puppy Training is another man’s Cuckolding is another man’s Tease & Denial is another man’s …

You get my point?  Don’t you?

This doesn’t mean we’re running around every day salivating and humping and chomping our fetish fangs all over the place.  I mean that wouldn’t look very nice at church now, would it?  Plus it would make for a lot of dry cleaning.  In my REAL LIFE I  have tender and romantic sex, with the occasional wild and crazy encounter.  And if you want to know more about that … well, you’re going to have to at least buy me dinner.  🙂

But I am quite serious when I iterate that all of us have THE RIGHT to Feel Dirty.  It’s just one part of our multi-faceted sexual selves.  If we deny this part of us, harness our super powers (prayer, hobbies, nightly bouts of self-flagellation) and Just Say No to the Kryptonite (get out of my head, lewd thoughts and craven images), we’re really just perpetuating out-dated psycho-sexual mythology and carnal misconceptions.  And then inflicting this erroneous crap on ourselves and others. 

As a wise woman once told me:  Thou shalt not should on thyself.  I thought it was good advice at the time and I’ve always kept it handy for the occasional crisis of conscience. I would just hope we remember to not should on others, either.  

How about this for a bumper sticker: Eradicate Sexual Obscurantism! 

xo, Angela

~Edward P. Morgan

Today ends Banned Book Week.  Can you stand just one more rant from yours truly?  I know I already did that yesterday; but it’s important because it speaks to our basic and most beautiful right to not only express ourselves but to seek out kindred hearts and thinkers.  It also happens to speak to our human right to learn and grow and self-actuate.  So lets have at it just one more time … what do you say?  And then I’ll exercise my First Amendment rights tomorrow (or maybe the next day) to write you something really dirty and juicy.

So once upon a time & a few years back, when I was writing regularly for Sex Kitten (and I may be doing so again … so stay tuned), I wrote the piece below.  Most of you here haven’t seen it and I think it stands the test of time, so here you go:

Banned in Boston, Condemned in Cleveland

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 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 to keep truth you need to earn it. You need to fight for it, sometimes even die for it. Because borrowed truth just doesn’t stick: 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 to 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 the rest of of us 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 stagnant 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 visit the library, walk into a bookstore, join a book club, attend a book fair and your heart thrills at the banquet of possibilities.

…you catch the musty scent of aged paper and pulp when entering your grandfather’s den and remember his smile, the way he held you on his lap and read to you.

…you read a Shakespearian sonnet to the woman you love 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, so full of promise, back then.

********

About Index Librorum Prohibitorum.:  Well, shame on me!  I grew up a Catholic gal and had never heard of this.  And wouldn’t have, unless a thoughtful commenter on my last post brought it up.  (Thank you, very much and I hope you visit often.)  Of course, I googled it and there it was all over the place.  I’ll just send you to the Wikipedia page, where you can read all about it. 

And I just had to use it as a title, ‘cuz it makes look smarter than I am.  *wink*

One more thing:  "Google" is officially a verb now (and has been for a while), which makes "googled" a real word ( a past tense verb, to be specific).  So why doesn’t my spell checker recognize it?  argghhhh. 

It’s banned book week and I just gotta say that …

… I’m a self-confessed and unapologetic bibliophile.  I’m a sucker for books:   good books, bad books and everything in between.  I love the smell of books, the feel of books.  I collect books and like looking at them all nestled together on my book shelves or piled here, there and everywhere in the corners of my life.  There is always a book in my purse.  There is always a book beside my bed.  I never ever go to sleep without reading at least a page or two of my current read … and there is ALWAYS a current read.   I  generally avoid bookstores because once I step through the door, I’m doomed to spend hundreds of dollars. 

… I often give books as gifts.  Because, honestly, I can’t think of anything better than to share a book that has thoroughly entertained me or taught me something new or made me laugh or caused me to weep or even perhaps changed me in some deep and fundamental way.  Is there anything better than being in the middle of a book that you can hardly put down, that you can’t wait to get back to?  If I care about you, why wouldn’t I want to give this experience to you?

… It follows that  with my liberal “brattiness” I am indeed passionately opposed to the narrow-minded minority who would attempt to ban any book, because they think they know better than you or me.   And so a few years ago I wrote the following.  I think it’s worth repeating …

Get Your Rocks OFF With a Banned Book

A book is a version of the world. If you do not like it, ignore it; or offer your own version in return.

~Salman Rushdie

Won’t you join me in championing free speech this week by observing Banned Books Week: Celebrating the Freedom to Read. Do it anyway you want, I don’t care: Take a book to lunch. Or dress it up in stockings and stilettos–then fuck it silly or jerk off and cum all over it. But most of all, hold it to your heart and keep it safe. 

Great Book Quotes

•  To be a book-collector is to combine the worst characteristics of a dope fiend with those of a miser. ~Robertson Davies
• There is no such thing as a moral or immoral book. Books are well written or badly written. ~Oscar Wilde
• The man who doesn’t read good books has no advantage over the man who can’t read them. ~Mark Twain
• A room without books is like a body without a soul. ~Cicero
• Never judge a book by its movie. ~J. W. Eagan
• Don’t join the book burners. Don’t think you’re going to conceal faults by concealing evidence that they ever existed. Don’t be afraid to go in your library and read every book. ~Dwight Eisenhower
• This is not a novel to be tossed aside lightly. It should be thrown with great force. ~Dorothy Parker
• I first read books to survive my life; then I read books to live my life; now I read books to celebrate my life. ~Angela St. Lawrence 

Most Sacred First Amendment

Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof; or abridging the freedom of speech, or of the press; or the right of the people peaceably to assemble , and to petition the government for a redress of grievances.

Books from the Hit List

• To Kill a Mockingbird by Harper Lee
• The Catcher in the Rye by J. D. Salinger
• Cujo by Stephen King
• Beloved by Toni Morrison
• The Adventures of Tom Sawyer by Mark Twain
• Native Son by Richard Wright
• Lord of the Flies by William Golding
• Ordinary People by Judith Guest
• The Handmaid’s Tale by Margaret Atwood
• Flowers for Algernon by Daniel Keyes
• The Color Purple by Alice Walker
• Of Mice and Men by John Steinbeck
• I Know Why the Caged Bird Sing by Maya Angelou

***Researching and putting all of the info together for this entry, I’ve had tears in my eyes more than once; fell in love with power of words–over and again; was struck heart-deep by the weight of truth which those who write always bare; and fell in love with my beautiful country all over again. If you even find your way to one of those things…I will be profoundly humbled.

***********

One more thing:  Between you and me, I sincerely believe that books saved my life.  Once upon a time I was a little girl in a bad situation — the world was ugly and there was no physical escape.  But there was the local library, just a few blocks from my parochial school.  And so I would go there to read and read and read.  My library card was my only prized possession, and with it I would borrow as many books as was permitted and read in my room, on the school bus, on the porch, in the yard.  And eventually all that reading got me from there to here.

So, yeah … spank your monkey with a book.  Fuck it, hump it, cum all over it.  Do it for me.  Do it for you.  Do it for those who read their way into their own selves.  Do it for all the little girls and boys who not only found a way out, but up, up, up …

Because books are that powerful.  And so are we.  If you don’t believe me, read a book.  You’ll see.

….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 counter top 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.

***

I wrote this piece for my semi-regular column at Sex Kitten.  As I noted a while back, it stirred up some positive attention, which made this little FemDom PhoneSex Wanna Be Writer Girl mighty happy.  But I suspect some of you have had neither the opportunity nor inclination to track it down.   Personally, it’s a fav of mine and so I thought I’d put it out there today for you stragglers.  Not to mention if frees up the time I would have spent writing a blog entry today for somewhat nastier pursuits.

I hope you like it. 

xo, Angela