Doing the Phone FemDom thing, when you screw with me, I will cut you to the bone.  I will make fun of your flaccid, useless penis, kick you in the balls, tell all your friends about your weird fetish for snot balloons, take a strap-on to your quivering ass, or maybe even coerce you into admitting your penchant for Man Sperm despite your trophy wife, two-car garage and white picket fence.

I will right-in-your-face cheat on your loser ass while you kneel helplessly at the side of the bed, The Humbler firmly in place, a constant reminder of your diminished status.  I will feed you your own load, clip you,  clamp you, tie you, beat you, denigrate you, punish you, hurt your, defile you, embarrass you …

… well, you get the picture.

But I’m not always in FemDom mode; and I certainly don’t EVER believe that creating Female Domination FANTASIES gives me or anyone else the right to be rude, catty, and/or downright stupid.  Integrity matters ALWAYS.  And some gals just don’t have it.   And so there’s this, which I wrote a while ago to a certain person who knows exactly who she is and what she did.

it sucks to be you

you’re a fucked up fraulein:
a plain-jane low-rent coward
bending over for cake crumbs
whispering and pointing and snarling
it sucks to be you

you’re a flimflam malingerer:
a hardscrabble box-of-bitch
kissing ass for nickles
sniffing and scratching and digging
it sucks to be you

you’re a wannabe who never was:
weightless and incidental
polishing apples for illegal tender
creeping and bowing and scraping
it sucks to be you

you’re a prayer-less maobite:
always outside looking in
falling all over your sorry self
crawling and grasping and whining
it sucks to be you

you’re a masticating pit bull:
ugly as sin and three times stupid
humping for your kibble and bits
snarling and chawing and slobbering
it sucks to be you

you’re an emaciated vampiress:
starving on the rancid bloat of envy
selling your abscessed flesh for scraps
mewling and whimpering and cringing
it sucks to be you

you’re a cheap trick in a shabby dress:
a bumbling beatitude of bad taste
licking boots for pennies on the dollar
fawning and kowtowing and abjuring
it sucks to be you

you’re a mercenary seductress:
salad-tossing your exiguous integrity
spreading your legs for niggardly churls
anguishing and bewailing and deprecating
it sucks to be you

you’re a counterfeit salome:
crossing your fingers behind your heart
putting out for the price of a song
sneaking and rooking and shafting
it sucks to be you

you’re the monkey on your own back:
the motherfucker of bad intention
fucking and sucking for peanuts
again and again and again
it sucks to be you

you’re a vagabond floozy:
a facsimile behind dime store lipstick
on your knees with your squalid mouth
swallowing and swallowing and swallowing
it sucks to be you

you’re a sideshow roustabout:
a blow-up doll for the midway rubes
flexing and opening at the drop of a hat
shifting and crooking and undulating
it sucks to be you

you’re a pink-collared hireling
nothing more and much more less
faking bastard orgasms on the bum
feigning and spoofing and dissembling
it sucks to be you

you’re an off-the-shelf goddess:
an unkempt tragedy of vassal-hood
giving it up for swill and slop
ravening and itching and craving
it sucks to be you

but most of all
you are what you aren’t:
and you will never be me

♥————–♥

Oh yeah, I was fuming.  And thanks to Mr. Boston for reminding me of this poem and wanting to know all the juicy behind-the-scenes gossip.   Not that he got any.  Gossip, that is.  Integrity counts, Mr. Boston!  Even if you are kneeling in front of me masturbating while I’m showing you video of your girlfriend with the CFO of your company.  *wink*

“Nothing optional—from homosexuality to adultery—is ever made punishable unless those who do the prohibiting (and exact the fierce punishments) have a repressed desire to participate.  As Shakespeare put it in King Lear, the policeman who lashes the whore has a hot need to use her for the very offense for which he plies the lash.”

~Christopher Hitchens

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That’s how Mr. Miami describes moi …

After a seriously intense hour-long cock-teasing session (with no release):

Him:  What nationality are you?

Me:  Supposedly I’m a mix of German, French and American Indian.

Him:  I can see the Indian.

Me:  What do you mean?

Him:  You’re a warrior!

*sigh*  Warms the cockles of my (twisted but sweet) Fem Dom heart.

I know what you’ve been thinking:  The bitch has flown the coup again.  Well, I didn’t, smarty panties.  I just have lots of irons in lots of fires and have had tutoring gigs up the va-jay-jay.  Evidently I’m good at this quasi-teaching thing, and even though I’m not one of those 24/7 PSOs, the tutoring  still gives me a chance to do something for money that doesn’t involve TALKING DIRTY.   I mean, as I’ve often told you, I really am just the girl next door, with lots of other stuff happening in my very regular life.

Although, I will say, college boys do like to flirt and if I gave them even half a chance … well, you know.  And if I told any one of them that I was a Phone Sex Operator?   He’d be showing up for “tutoring” at 2 am on a Saturday night/morning.

Oh, and did I mention I just got over a miserable bout of pneumonia?  And now my doctor thinks (THINKS) I may have some chronic respiratory problem.  Let’s just hope she’s full of you know what.  She was opining, after all, over the phone.  I’m supposed to give it (“it” being my scratchy throat & lingering aftereffects) some time (about a month) and “let’s see how it goes and then we’ll take it from there.”  Let’s hope it’s true that time does, indeed, heal all woulds.

I am taking calls as much as I can, but quite honestly my throat is still recovering, so that a stretch of exploiting wimpy wankers, pantifying (just added that to my dictionary ‘cuz it should be a word) sissy bois (another add), teasing chronic strokers (OMG! strokers is another add … this dictionary is extremely puritan),  beguiling and discomfiting cuckolds and really just doin’ what comes naturally (for me ;-D), causes my throat to rebel and I have to take time off to be absolutely quiet and medicate.  So that is why as of late (to answer your question Mr. Tom) you find me available, then not available, and then available again, with no discernible pattern.  I really have no other choice right now.

In between all of this, I have been working on graphics for my NiteFlirt listings, which I do believe have turned out ratherish fabulous.  Now if I can just get someone to help me figure out the HTML to get them where they need to be.  I do have an absolute sweetie who usually helps me with this stuff, but he kinda-sorta has been tied up.  Not by me.

Since I was so sick for so long, my usually pristine environment just isn’t up to my standards, so I am having my housekeeper do  a deep cleaning tomorrow and definitely won’t be available for calls.  Wednesday is iffy,  as I have a dental appointment (whitening) which I’m trying to reschedule, but may not be able to.  From Thursday into and through the weekend … the coast clear.  Except for the  detritus left behind from the seriously fucked up fantasy phone sex in which I plan to immerse myself and you.  *wink*

Oh … some good news of sorts.  Once I get my pages fixed and pretty at NiteFlirt (should be at least my Monday, and hopefully sooner), I will be running a 5 FREE MINUTES Spring Phone Sex Special both for new callers and my loyal pets.  And I also plan to run some daily specials here and there with discounts.  So make sure to stay tuned.

xo, Angela

 Taking Off Emily Dickinson’s Clothes
by Billy Collins

First her tippet made of tulle,
easily lifted off her shoulders and laid
on the back of a wooden chair.

And her bonnet,
the bow undone with a light forward pull.

Then the long white dress, a more
complicated matter with mother-of-pearl
buttons down the back,
so tiny and numerous that it takes forever
before my hands can part the fabric,
like a swimmer’s dividing water,
and slip inside.

You will want to know
that she was standing
by an open window in an upstairs bedroom,
motionless, a little wide-eyed,
looking out at the orchard below,
the white dress puddled at her feet
on the wide-board, hardwood floor.

The complexity of women’s undergarments
in nineteenth-century America
is not to be waved off,
and I proceeded like a polar explorer
through clips, clasps, and moorings,
catches, straps, and whalebone stays,
sailing toward the iceberg of her nakedness.

Later, I wrote in a notebook
it was like riding a swan into the night,
but, of course, I cannot tell you everything –
the way she closed her eyes to the orchard,
how her hair tumbled free of its pins,
how there were sudden dashes
whenever we spoke.

What I can tell you is
it was terribly quiet in Amherst
that Sabbath afternoon,
nothing but a carriage passing the house,
a fly buzzing in a windowpane.

So I could plainly hear her inhale
when I undid the very top
hook-and-eye fastener of her corset

and I could hear her sigh when finally it was unloosed,
the way some readers sigh when they realize
that Hope has feathers,
that reason is a plank,
that life is a loaded gun
that looks right at you with a yellow eye

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I’ve previously shared some of my favorite Billy Collins poetry with you (both HERE and HERE).  He’s just so damn good and he certainly knows his Emily well, I’m sure you’ll agree.

Or…

… perhaps this account is absolutely true, Mr. Collins having utilized his secretly endowed super power of time travel to journey back to the 1800s where he cornered Ms. Dickinson in some secluded nook of her family’s home and had his way with her.

Makes sense to me.

xo, Angela