It’s no secret that I adore my clients.  Most of you have stood fast and true, and have always remained (for some reason) awestruck at the mayhem and mischief I create in our virtual phone sex fantasies.  Hey, that’s what I’m here for and, I’m very aware that you call me when you could have just as easily called someone else.   And you do call me… again and again and again.

Certainly, here and there, you stray.   But, hey!  If you can’t cheat on your Phone Sex Goddess (*rolling eyes*), what would this world be coming to?  It is a man’s nature, after all, to sniff around … a genetic flaw of sorts.  You just can’t help yourselves.  The salient fact is that most of you (not all of you — I can only be so awesome, after all *wink*) scurry right back, seeking both absolution and asylum within the folds of my skirt.

Still … wherever thou dost ramble, with whomsoever thou dost rollick, whatever mischief with which you find yourself otherwise occupied, you still keep me posted.  A quick call, an email, a nice 5 star review or even a few words here at this blog.  Do NOT EVER think I don’t notice, because I certainly do.  Even when I’m lost in Phone Sex Diva self-absorption (blame it on the Leo in me) I always feel indulged by you:

PQS sends me his favorite “Best of Bad Writing” from the Bulwer-Lytton website:

“As the young officer studied the oak door, he was reminded of his girlfriend — for she was also slightly unhinged, occasionally sticky, and responded well to being stripped and given a light oiling.”

(to which he added:  hahahahahahaha)

And did you happen to catch is ode to me/homage to Poe here at Zen on Halloween?  He’s so fuckin’ smart:

T’was on Halloween it seeming, then did I, perchance, while dreaming
Come to view on my screen gleaming, tangled, tortured lines of woe!
As I read them, my mind streaming, horrors from a night’s bad dreaming
Assaulted me, like bat wings teeming! Anguished lines from E. A. Poe
“It must be Angie,” thought I musing, “posting rhymes from E. A. Poe!”
“Insight from a talking crow!”

But then thought I, my spirit keening, perhaps there is a hidden meaning,
A runic message intervening, buried midst this tale of woe.
But finding none, I vaguely wondered, could it be poor Poe had blundered?
What’s the chance, one in a hundred, that man could banter with a crow?
Trading anecdotes and wisdom, wisdom with a coal-black crow?
T’is unlikely, that I know.
HDB, with his signature rat-a-tat delivery,  always follows up our kinky conversations with a generous gratuity and “Thank You” email:

1. “Catatonic and it’s all your fault.”
2. “Toes curled on that one.”
3. “Can’t move. Happy boy.”

… and always 5 star reviews that go something like this:

***Pop. Sizzle. Pow. Angela rocks the stratosphere and every man in it.

… and sometimes a funny quote two:

“I haven’t left my house in days.
I watch the news channels incessantly.
All the news stories are about the election;
All the commercials are for Viagra and Cialis.
Election  –  erection  –  election  –  erection.
Either way we’re getting fucked! ~ Bette Midler.”

The Prof? He’s always short & sweet & to the point and ever so charming:

Oh lovely wonderful you.  Off to buy paint, grocery shop, etc. but ONLY thinking of you.

and consistently, creatively smitten:

Your personality is …  eclectic, electric, esoteric, erudite, epiphonous … erotic, enigmatic, elegant … so many e’s, so little time … and that’s just one letter of our elegant English.  love from The Prof, whose middle name starts with e.

Then there’s my cherished Little N:

Dear Angela,

I’m not writing this note to tell you that I adore you (you know that already) that I admire the imagination and dedication you put into what you do (you know that already) or that I consider the fantasies you weave for me so skillfully to be like healing balm on my deepest desires and aches. No, telling you that might be tainted with horny-ness and that joyous tingle that spreads through my body whenever I start talking with you.

I’m writing this note to tell you that I occasionally just plain and simple need to talk with you just about anything, and to hear your voice and laughter and share the details of my travails as you do with yours. I’m writing to tell you that I simply love talking with you, because you have a gift for making me feel human and capable and resilient.

Somehow, after a friendly chat with you I feel that those things that bothered me are not insurmountable after all. And when that’s coming from the very talented lady who knows my deepest and most convoluted fantasies, the patient lady who has experienced my soul more emotionally naked than any other woman on earth, life does feel better and less difficult.

Please rest assured – this is not a fantasy-sex-fueled infatuation, this is pure gratitude. Gratitude with a capital G. To be able to speak with a grown-up, in depth, with nothing held back, is not only a rare pleasure, but something that as adults, we should have the luck to experience with at least one person on this earth. And if we do experience this great pleasure, we need to take a deep breath, let the blessed oxygen molecules have the time to enter every dusty brain cell, exhale slowly and say: thank you. Thank you for the pleasure of knowing a tiny bit of you, thank you for our time on the phone, this time for just a casual chat, shooting the breeze, and thank you for your time and your ear.

Oh, and lest I forget, let me say this, and how do I phrase this delicately?- When we get down and dirty and nasty and you deftly interpret and delicately flesh out one of my fantasies and run it through me, my cock overflows and shoots big gobs of thick come in heart-stopping intensity. You make me jerk off and come like no one else. And you heal me. You heal me. Until I come back for my sweet medicine again, to my fantasies where all aches are healed and all cravings are satiated, to that place where you reign supreme, like a wise Empress. Because there is no one quite as good and unique and wickedly creative and artful and understanding as you.

You are awesome, babe. Just sayin’.

Yours, Little N.

A smattering of phone sex reviews (because, believe it baby, I DELIVER a 5 STAR Phone Sex Experience:

• Thank You so much, Mistress Angela! I do adore You .. and I do belong to You!
• Absolutely amazing. Really takes the time to dig into what makes your fantasy great and goes crazy with it.
• Angela, you are amazing. You took my few whispered sentences, and built an amazing fantasy around it. You are understanding, patient, and have an amazing memory when it comes to people’s shifting likes and dislikes. Thank you!
• One you go Angela, everyone else is jut plain vanilla.
• I gave Angela the set up, and she picked everything up quickly to give me a pitch-perfect rendition of my own little deviant fantasy. Great call!!
• Its a bUmPy ride 🙂
• as always, mind and load blowing – truly a thinking man’s siren, ASL is not satisfied with you wrecking your vessel on the stony shore, you’ll drive your boat full steam ahead and enjoy every bit of the tumultuous landing

So, yeah, I’m paying attention and lovin’ you guys to pieces.

xo, Angela

*** FYI: I have been trying to be available for calls as much as possible, but having picked up three tutoring gigs (parents panicking as finals loom) while redesigning my NiteFlirt pages (hoping to have everything done by the first of December, but that remains to be seen) and preparing to revamp this blog and my other Phone Sex Websites — well, I’m up to my nose in busy, busy busy.  Of course, I’m not complaining as hyper-activity does keep my Nipples hard.   Obviously all this activity is interfering with my blogging, but I will strive to be more consistent.  Be patient with me and watch for lotsa positive and naughty changes early into the New Year.  xoxoxo

It’s NO MORE Pussy for Eddy and this Bitch Bird is about to tell him so:

THE RAVEN.

Edgar Allen Poe

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
“ ’Tis some visiter,” I muttered, “tapping at my chamber door
Only this and nothing more.”

Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December;
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow; — vainly I had sought to borrow
From my books surcease of sorrow — sorrow for the lost Lenore
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore
Nameless here for evermore.

And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
Thrilled me — filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating
“ ’Tis some visiter entreating entrance at my chamber door
Some late visiter entreating entrance at my chamber door;
This it is and nothing more.”

Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
“Sir,” said I, “or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,
That I scarce was sure I heard you” Here I opened wide the door;
Darkness there and nothing more.

Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before;
But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,
And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, “Lenore?”
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, “Lenore!”
Merely this and nothing more.

Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,
Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.
“Surely,” said I, “surely that is something at my window lattice;
Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore
Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore;
Tis the wind and nothing more!”

Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
In there stepped a stately Raven of the saintly days of yore;
Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;
But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door
Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door
Perched, and sat, and nothing more.

Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,
“Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,” I said, “art sure no craven,
Ghastly grim and ancient Raven wandering from the Nightly shore
Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night’s Plutonian shore!”
Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”

Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,
Though its answer little meaning — little relevancy bore;
For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door
Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,
With such name as “Nevermore.”

But the Raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
Nothing farther then he uttered — not a feather then he fluttered
Till I scarcely more than muttered “Other friends have flown before
On the morrow he will leave me, as my Hopes have flown before.”
Then the bird said “Nevermore.”

Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
“Doubtless,” said I, “what it utters is its only stock and store
Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster
Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore
Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore
Of ‘Never — nevermore’.”

But the Raven still beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird, and bust and door;
Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore —
What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore
Meant in croaking “Nevermore.”

This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom’s core;
This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
On the cushion’s velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o’er,
But whose velvet-violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o’er,
She shall press, ah, nevermore!

Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
Swung by seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.
“Wretch,” I cried, “thy God hath lent thee — by these angels he hath sent thee
Respite — respite and nepenthe, from thy memories of Lenore;
Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Lenore!”
Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”

“Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil! — prophet still, if bird or devil! —
Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted
On this home by Horror haunted — tell me truly, I implore —
Is there — is there balm in Gilead? — tell me — tell me, I implore!”
Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”

“Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil! — prophet still, if bird or devil!
By that Heaven that bends above us — by that God we both adore
Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,
It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore.”
Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”

“Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!” I shrieked, upstarting
“Get thee back into the tempest and the Night’s Plutonian shore!
Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
Leave my loneliness unbroken! — quit the bust above my door!
Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!”
Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”

And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon’s that is dreaming,
And the lamp-light o’er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
Shall be lifted — nevermore!

______________________________________________

Buy the book, Edgar Allen Poe: The Complete Poems, HERE

Visit Poe Stories HERE

______________________________________________

Happy Halloween

xo, Angela

No Tricks, Just Treats: 

Check your NiteFlirt email for 5 FREE Phone Sex MINUTES

Victoria’s Secret

Billy Collins

The one in the upper-left-hand corner
is giving me a look
that says I know you are here
and I have nothing better to do
for the remainder of human time
than return your persistent but engaging stare.
She is wearing a deeply scalloped
flame-stitch halter top
with padded push-up styling
and easy side-zip tap pants.

The one on the facing page, however,
who looks at me over her bare shoulder,
cannot hide the shadow of annoyance in her brow.
You have interrupted me,
she seems to be saying,
with your coughing and your loud music.
Now please leave me alone;
let me finish whatever it was I was doing
in my organza-trimmed
whisperweight camisole with
keyhole closure and point d’esprit mesh back.

I wet my thumb and flip the page.
Here, the one who happens to be reclining
in a satin and lace merry widow
with an inset lace-up front,
decorated underwire cups and bodice
with lace ruffles along the bottom
and hook-and-eye closure in the back,
is wearing a slightly contorted expression,
her head thrust back, mouth partially open,
a confusing mixture of pain and surprise
as if she had stepped on a tack
just as I was breaking down
her bedroom door with my shoulder.

Nor does the one directly beneath her
looking particularly happy to see me.
She is arching one eyebrow slightly
as if to say, so what if I am wearing nothing
but this stretch panne velvet bodysuit
with a low sweetheart neckline
featuring molded cups and adjustable straps.
Do you have a problem with that?!

The one on the far right is easier to take,
her eyes half-closed
as if she were listening to a medley
of lullabies playing faintly on a music box.
Soon she will drop off to sleep,
her head nestled in the soft crook of her arm,
and later she will wake up in her
Spandex slip dress with the high side slit,
deep scoop neckline, elastic shirring,
and concealed back zip and vent.

But opposite her,
stretched out catlike on a couch
in the warm glow of a paneled library,
is one who wears a distinctly challenging expression,
her face tipped up, exposing
her long neck, her perfectly flared nostrils.
Go ahead, her expression tells me,
take off my satin charmeuse gown
with a sheer, jacquard bodice
decorated with a touch of shimmering Lurex.
Go ahead, fling it into the fireplace.
What do I care, her eyes say, we’re all going to hell anyway.

I have other mail to open,
but I cannot help noticing her neighbor
whose eyes are downcast,
her head ever so demurely bowed to the side
as if she were the model who sat for Coreggio
when he painted “The Madonna of St. Jerome,”
only, it became so ungodly hot in Parma
that afternoon, she had to remove
the traditional blue robe
and pose there in his studio
in a beautifully shaped satin teddy
with an embossed V-front,
princess seaming to mold the bodice,
and puckered knit detail.

And occupying the whole facing page
is one who displays that expression
we have come to associate with photographic beauty.
Yes, she is pouting about something,
all lower lip and cheekbone.
Perhaps her ice cream has tumbled
out of its cone onto the parquet floor.
Perhaps she has been waiting all day
for a new sofa to be delivered,
waiting all day in stretch lace hipster
with lattice edging, satin frog closures,
velvet scrollwork, cuffed ankles,
flare silhouette, and knotted shoulder straps
available in black, champagne, almond,
cinnabar, plum, bronze, mocha,
peach, ivory, caramel, blush, butter, rose, and periwinkle.
It is, of course, impossible to say,
impossible to know what she is thinking,
why her mouth is the shape of petulance.

But this is already too much.
Who has the time to linger on these delicate
lures, these once unmentionable things?