Well, it did.  And you just know I’m going to tell you all about it, don’t you?  Which means it’s time to tell you about Jewboy.  Don’t get all politically correct on me, because he calls me the Little Shiksa.  A few of you know about him, but most don’t.  So let’s get to it, because he is part of this Valentine Story.

JewBoy is kinda-sorta my signicant other — just not too significant.  It’s my fault, not his.  He’s cute as a button, kinda geeky (which always gets me hot … so much fun to corrupt a nerd), sweet-natured and he would love to take our "relationship" to the next level.  I’m just not into heavy duty togetherness and all the work that goes into putting yourself on the line like that.  So we date here and there and I keep him at arms length … where he’s easy to handle.  And where I can live out in real life my FemDom Tease and Denial games. 

Hey, it works for me.  He’s handy candy, if you know what I mean.  And if you don’t?  Well, don’t expect me to go into a deep explanation.  But the weird thing about me and guys  — anybody I date — is that while I refuse to get really serious with anyone, at the same time,  I really do believe in love … romance, hearts & flowers, Valentine’s Day, MARRIAGE AND BABIES, kisses, hand-holding.  I mean, at least the idea of Happily Ever After seduces me.  But only for a while.  I don’t know.  Maybe it’s boredom, maybe I’m just a fickle bitch, or maybe the guys with whom I get involved turn out to be not so very much Prince Charmings.  Thus, numerous broken engagements at my relatively young age.

And I’ve explained this to JewBoy.  Although he rarely sees me and I often don’t take his calls, he buys the entire package that I am — lopsided ribbon and all.   I’m the first to admit my Girl-Boy games are quite selfish and that giving (in relationships) isn’t currently something I can do well.  But this is real life and it’s all I’ve got, at least for now.  So if a guy is interested he’s either got to take what I’m dishing out or get really sick of the menu and tell me to fuck off.  Interestingly enough — and much more than you would guess — the guy takes it.

So JewBoy wanted to do the Valentine thing.  He sent me flowers (sneaking in a couple of roses when he knows I prefer carnations, but that was forgivable enough), the accompanying card  tip-toeing around the L Word.  Because he knows better and because if he had been overly mushy I probably wouldn’t have taken his calls for another three or four weeks.  And he was hoping for a romantic Valentine dinner.  Which does appeal to my romantic side and I really am not heartless.  So I thought about it, I really did.

BUT … what I really really really wanted to do for Valentine’s day was Phone Sex.   Phone Sex with you and you and you and you.  FemDom Phone sex preferably, but a healthy dollop of perverse and kinky Phone Sex Chat would have been totally acceptable and most certainly a very good thing.  I do, after all, have a wicked imagination and take immense pleasure in weaving dirty stories about dirty boys doing dirty things.  I had plans to run some sort of Valentine Special and just make it a fun day with my callers.  So I politely and delicately (I really am fond of him and never ever want to hurt him) declined JewBoy’s date request, promising we would do the dinner thing soon after the big day.

UNFORTUNATELY …  Can you believe it?  I got sick with what I think was the flu.  I was miserable enough for it to be the flu.  So I went to my doctor on Monday, only by then I was already starting to get better.  No good drugs, but lots of blood tests since this is my second round of illness this year and she wanted to make sure that nothing more sinister is going on.  I am pretty much fine now, so the the visit was a waste of time and money.  But like I said, not even any good drugs from the visit. 

So guys (and JewBoy where ever you are):  Sorry about that.  I hated that I was sick.  I hated drinking the Thera-Flu.  I hated the fever and chills taking alternate and seemingly ceaseless swipes at me.  I hated my disinterest in CNN or even a good movie.  I hated reading a book and having to reread each and every paragraph because I was just too damn sick to pay attention.  I hated disappointing JewBoy.  But, most of all, I hated not being able to throw one hell-of-a rip-roaring Phone Sex party for one and all.

So here’s the deal.  I’m almost totally better; in fact, I even worked today.  I will be working the rest of the week at least eight hour each day.  I’m NOT promising what hours as I have real life responsibilities I need to work around.  But you will get at least eight hours from me, so keep checking.

In the meantime, I’m working on a very special project for THE GOOD GUYS.  And you know who you are, so be watching.

xo, Angela

_______________________

Phone Sex Quote of the day from Mr./Ms. J who made my day when he/she said:  You’re what I would call a modern Phone Sex Operator.  You actually have ethics and stick to them. 

_______________________

Best Valentine Gift:  Thank you Mr. W for the licorice.  You know it’s my favorite and I can hardly stop eating it.  Yum Yum Yum!

_______________________

Second Best Valentine Gift:  Thank you, YouKnowWho, for the Feng Shoe book — the little high-heel book mark is just too cute.  And the card?  Soooo me.  KIssssss.

A Lament For Phone Sex Operators in Tough Economic Times

By Pervert Q. Savant

The evening news
these the past few weeks
has surely brought
more troughs than peaks.
Spending’s down;
unemployment grows.
The country’s fortunes
Have hit new lows
And while Congress
spews purple prose,
There’s no money out there
for poor PSOs!

As I pen these words,
I see much amiss.
Our economy’s entered
a real deep abyss.
“This bailout’s a bust!”
fat Rush Limbaugh crows.
These damned banks won’t even tell us
Where all that money goes!”
The automakers too
Bewail their many woes.
But there’s not a dime out there
for poor PSOs!

“Our debt’s all ballooned!”
the fierce pundits all scream.
“The Chinese’ll own us,
Our lenders just scheme!”
But our great Wall Street moguls
are in soft repose.
They’re sipping champagne,
while their banks just foreclose.
And the worst thing about it
Is that no one really knows
who really got all that money
and then where it all goes.
But one thing’s for certain,
I think everyone knows
there ain’t a bit of it out there
for poor PSOs!

In the overall scheme of things
it just doesn’t seem right
to give out all that money
to millionaires – so uncontrite,
To the financing biggies —
Like poor AIG ,
and similar piggies,
who so soaked you and me.
But that’s the free market
It’s how it all goes
The tycoons get the money
While we get the hose.
And there’s not a dime out there
For poor PSOs.

So lower your rates, daughters!
Advertise to the max!
Give out those free minutes!
In your work be not lax!
For you’re on your own, honey
There’s no help from the Feds,
if you want to get money
for your food or your meds.
‘Cause the U.S. economy’s
in its death throes
And there’s certainly no money
For poor PSOs.

***

So do Phone Sex Operators need a Phone Sex bailout?  Why not?  If Larry Flynt and the Porn Industry can do it, so can we. 

Thanks you Pervert Savant, for the cutest poem ever!  And readers, while you’re here, learn more about my Savant Collection right here and read Pervert Savant’s ongoing series,  Lingerie on the Razor-Wire by clicking here.

Sex Goddess

by Maggie Estep

I am THE SEX GODDESS OF THE WESTERN HEMISPHERE
so don’t mess with me
I’ve got a big bag full of SEX TOYS
and you can’t have any
’cause they’re all mine
’cause I’m
the SEX GODDESS OF THE WESTERN HEMISPHERE.

"Hey," you may say to yourself,
"who the hell’s she tryin’ to kid,
she’s no sex goddess,"
But trust me,
I am
if only for the fact that I have
the unabashed gall
to call
myself a SEX GODDESS,
I mean, after all,
it’s what so many of us have at some point thought,
we’ve all had someone
who worshipped our filthy socks
and barked like a dog when we were near
giving us cause
to pause and think: You know, I may not look like much
but deep inside, I am a SEX GODDESS.

Only
we’d never come out and admit it publicly
well, you wouldn’t admit it publicly
but I will
because I am
THE SEX GODDESS OF THE WESTERN HEMISPHERE.

I haven’t always been
a SEX GODDESS
I used to be just a mere mortal woman
but I grew tired of sexuality being repressed
then manifest
in late night 900 number ads
where 3 bodacious bimbettes
heave cleavage into the camera’s winking lens and sigh:

"Big Girls oooh, Bad Girls oooh, Blonde Girls oooh,
you know what to do, call 1-900-UNMITIGATED BIMBO ooooh."

Yeah
I got fed up with the oooh oooh oooh oooh oooh
I got fed up with it all
so I put on my combat boots
and hit the road with my bag full of SEX TOYS
that were a vital part of my SEX GODDESS image
even though I would never actually use
my SEX TOYS
’cause my being a SEX GODDESS
it isn’t a SEXUAL thing
it’s a POLITICAL thing
I don’t actually have SEX, no
I’m too busy taking care of
important SEX GODDESS BUSINESS,
yeah,
I gotta go on The Charlie Rose Show
and MTV and become a parody
of myself and make
buckets full of money off my own inane brand
of self-righteous POP PSYCHOLOGY
because my pain is different
because I am a SEX GODDESS
and when I talk,
people listen
why ?
Because, you guessed it,
I AM THE SEX GODDESS OF THE WESTERN HEMISPHERE
and you’re not.

***

She’s a most astute observer, this poetess Maggie Estep.  I giggled and giggled and giggled some more.  Bitchy would get the why of it.  So would a few readers.  

What?  I’m so glad you asked.  Yes,  there is a website.  And lots of books.  I’m kinda-sorta digging this anthology. 

And Ms. Estep likes dogs.  All good people should like dogs.  I like dogs.  Except … I’m just too pussy to step up to the responsibility.  Which explains Fredrick the Cross-Dressing Cat, who sleeps on my hip most nights. 

why?

because I AM A SEX GODDESS

and you’re not.

xo, Angela

A Soulful Christmas with James Brown

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)