Pricks, Dicks and Cocks.  Oh my!

Friday’s YouTube post, "Dick in a Box" (for which Justin Timberlake won an Emmy) got me to thinking about the very real and totally unsolicited dick gifts that I (and many other women) unexpectedly receive via email every so often.  Which begs the question, "Just what in the hell is a guy thinking when he sends a girl (he’s never met, instant messaged with, or spoken to) this perversely quixotic self-effigy?  

Jeeze Louise, Mr. Man, what in the heck is going on here?  Is this your fucked-up version of the quintessential Kodak moment? Where is your sense of propriety?   Because, between you and me, it’s not only inappropriate, it’s downright icky!  And I mean icky as in  "making the female-collective skin crawl" icky.  For Chrizt Sakes! Do you keep these pictures in your wallet and show them at dinner parties?   Although our distinguished Pervert Savant knew a guy who kinda-sort did just that, it’s not common nor acceptable behavior.  Yes, even on the Internet, you don’t get to be an asshole. 

Now, don’t get me wrong, I have nothing against a pretty enuff penis now and then.  But it’s certainly not true that I’ve never met a penis I didn’t like, occasions of Sprick-Mail (spam prick mail) being a prime example.  This is, after all, stuff of sex and intimacy, not of candygram-esque surprises from strangers.  Once you know me, I might even ask to see a picture.  

But if you want me to respect you in the morning, you better have to take that picture especially for me.  Because a guy who keeps pictures of his weenie on his hard drive, even if he swears he isn’t sending them out helter-skelter, everywhither way, definitely has some deranged, unhealthy fascination with his own prick that begs another question as in "What the Fuck?"   And which prompts the follow-up obloquy, "Get lost and get a life."

Then again, maybe it’s just a phenomena with Phone Sex Operators?

BUT …

After the above short-but-sassy quasi-philippic, I must confess I once played shutterbug and took some cock photos of a certain penis I was in possession of at the time.  And no — I don’t have them on my hard drive, so don’t ask to see them. I’m not even sure I still posses them.  Although they should be tucked somewhere amongst the nooks and crannies of my photo albums. If so, I pray they never fall out when my sister or brother or a friend is flipping through them.  Because one one of those little suckers did get loose once, much to my embarrassment.

It all started because I was naked in bed with a certain someone, while my camera and sunglasses lie beside me on the bedside table.  And put one, two and three together:  penis + sunglasses + camera = Angela making naked boy do stupid thing.  And he did.  I propped those sunglasses right at the base of his dick, with it hanging down like a long nose, and snapped away.  I took them to a Wallgreens for developement and they went right through — no questions asks — along with the picnic and Trivial Pursuit party pictures which made up the rest of the roll.

A few weeks later, there was another picnic and I wanted to show everybody the pictures.  So I went ruffled through the prints, pulling out the dick-pics.  Or so I thought.  The first person I showed them to happened to be a man "of a certain age," who was kinda-sorta a surrogate father to me.  We are smiling and talking and basking in the sun as he goes through the pictures, stopping here and there to make a comment or ask who someone was.  Then it happened.  All of a sudden he got stone quiet.  When I looked to see why, I saw that his face and neck had turned a deep crimson. 

And I knew. 

I felt the heat of my matching blush crawling up my throat and across my face.  Somehow, someway, I’d overlooked one of the tell-tale pictures and my sometimes Daddy Dearest was looking right at the evidence of his sweet, little girl’s brazen debauchery.  Oh the shame.  Oh the humiliation.  Oh the embarrassment.

Of course, the picnic went on and and life went on.  And although we never, ever spoke of the incident, Mr. Daddy Man did forgive me. 

But I don’t think he ever forgot.  I sure didn’t.

xo, Angela

(if — after all of that — you still wanna see dick pictures:  CLICK HERE)

[youtube:http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WhwbxEfy7fg&autoplay=0 300 375]

Ten Lies Pornographers Tell

Porn can be misleading so I untangle it a little. 

By Sam Sugar

1. Porn stars are breaking into the mainstream. You’re not cast as the stripper who dances naked at the bachelor party and then has a coat hook put through the back of her head while she’s fucking the star because you have potential as a character actress. You’ll get offered ‘Third junkie hooker’ because junkie hookers one and two get to keep their clothes on and there’s a line of real actresses out the door fighting to do those parts, and getting a five episode story arc on CSI doesn’t count when they’re using your noteriety for free publicity. The mainstream’s happy to inject a little pornster sex-appeal when they need it, and know most are so desperate for mainstream recognition they’ll take $250 for a twelve hour day as long as they don’t have to screw anyone.

2. Teens. Women are only teenage and legal for two years. Tiffany Teen’s been online since 2003 and if you think that she was eighteen when she started… wanna buy a bridge? You can’t really fault women who exploit the borderline-pedophile market but seriously, when was the last time you saw a real teenager in a pink mini-skirt and pigtails?

3. Sluts. Despite what it says on the box, if you call a woman – even a porn performer – a nasty cum-drinking bitch when your not having sex with her, she’s probably going to knee you in the nuts. The tubby mommies-boys and misogynists who market porn want you to think the way they view women is how women in porn see themselves. Try calling a performer a ‘dirty cock-socket’ at a trade-show if you think it is, in fact, true. Watch your head.

4. Reality Porn. You go for a drive with a few friends. Seeing a cute girl on the street you stop to offer her a ride. She sees four guys in a van, one of whom has a video camera, and gets in. You ask to see her tits and she says no, so you offer her a hundred bucks to fuck you and your buddy. She thinks about it, realizes she’s always wanted to be a prostitute, asks for two hundred, and jumps on your dick. You’re not wearing a rubber and she’s a total stranger but neither of you are worried because, like, what are the odds? You stop the van and persuade her to get out. Then ‘for a joke’ you drive off without paying her and sell the video on the internet. She obviously doesn’t tell anyone because you manage to do this three times a week in the same neighborhood without any difficulty for then next five years. If that seems real too you – man you have to see this bridge…

5. Cock length and bust size. New rule. Any guy claiming to pack over nine inches has to photograph their junk beside an ice-pick like an explorer who’s found a strange footprint; and guys, the number in a bra-size is a chest measurement. 54C? That’s Barbara Bush. Enjoy your masturbation

6. Gangbang numbers. We’ll forget that you’re watching a gangbang and what that means – “There are hundred of guys standing around wanking in this movie and one bored woman… I’m buying it.” – but given testing costs, catering logistics and basic rates of pay you’d be insane to believe the numbers producers put on the boxes of ‘gangbang’ movies. Even if you could get 500 guys in a room, tested, fed and paid half of them wouldn’t be able to get it up, half of those left wouldn’t be able to get it out, and half of the remainder would sneeze all over the thighs of the guy in front of him while waiting in line for seconds. It’s why gangbang movies always have a number of well-known male performers on-hand to do the job. Porn counting goes like this 1, 2, 3, Gang, “INSERT FANTASY NUMBER HERE”

7. Fame. The most famous living pornographers are Hugh Hefner, Larry Flynt and Ron Jeremy. Hefner’s an institution (that institution’s a cross between Michael Jackson’s Neverland and a Greyhound station) while Flynt and Jeremy are both thirty-year veterans who’ve been the subject of mainstream movies. Jenna? A distant fourth, and being fourth most famous anything is like being the fourth largest army in the world – India – no one cares. Porn will not make you famous – unless you think that the ninth most famous magician in America’s a pretty famous dude (admit it – you got stuck after David Copperfield, David Blaine, Siegfried and Roy).

8. Alt Porn. Traditionally porn performers get paid a fixed daily rate, don’t get any residual pay and have no real control over the product they’re in. The product itself features skinny white girls from the flyover states who get hired because of how they look and how they fuck. Or is that alt-porn? Janine’s been rocking tatts and attitude for a decade while raising two kids without ever being labeled ‘alt’ anything, while ‘alt porn’ darling Joanna Angel recently said on camera “…does the fact I’ll let any stranger cum on my face but won’t fuck a black guy make me a racist?” Er… yes it does Joanna (See here for why). A tattoo and a bad dye-job is not going to upset ‘the system’ and the ‘alternative’ to traditional porn is independence, control and new ideas not haircuts, piercings and hip records.

9. Art Porn. The defense of bad art is always the same. “Who are you to judge?” Well I’m happy to judge and so are you. Bach was a better composer than Yanni, and Monet was a better painter than Thomas Kincaid. If you disagree that’s not an opinion, it’s proof you’re an imbecile. Art porn has yet to scale the heights of ‘Dogs Playing Poker’ and it all sucks.

10. Porn Stars are Rich. If you grew up in a town where having tread on your spare tire made you wealthy, porn is incredibly lucrative. If you think it’s unfair to get paid $2,000 for a movie named after you which makes $500,000 in its first year of release you might not be ‘porn star’ material. The average studio contract is about $75K a year and if you’re lucky you’ll hold it for five. During that time you’ll eat as carefully, and train as hard, as a professional athlete, you won’t be able to start a family, and you’ll exclude yourself permanently from a range of other career options in return for the take-home pay of a McDonalds night-manager. Porn’s like professional sport, the rich people are the (content) owners. Unlike professional sport there is no minimum wage, hardly any licensing and no players association. Want to be a rich adult performer? Build a website.

***

I really got a kick out of the above piece from Sam Sugar’s blog, and thought I’d share it with you.  You should be familiar with Sam from Sugasm, where the best erotic writing on the web can regularly be found.  Then, of course, there’s Babeonaut.

Alex – Alexia

by Richard of DownOnMyKnees

At 5′8″ and 125 lbs. he’d never be called manly. Very very pale rather blank blue eyes and a weak chin made him look like the kind of guy who’d been picked on as a kid. Which he was. Treated nastily by his father as well.

Which is probably why he needed what I was able to give him. Anyone who meets me sees someone invincibly self-assured. I sometimes tell people that I could sell my surplus self-esteem but foreign dictators. It is a bit of a front but sometimes advertising is everything. I could also give him unconditional affection and complete fidelity. While I think of monogamy as pretty silly I’ve always been so. And I could give him the experiences you, gentle reader, will get a sample of as this narrative continues.

Alex gave me the most cursory brush against my lips and headed straight for the bathroom. Right now his mind was focused on remaking himself. Anybody who meets him can tell he’s a “nancy boy,” “jane girl,” that is, a femme gay male. What you can’t tell on sight is that he’s a transvestite. Dressing as a woman is his supreme pleasure in life. Probably more than I am, I’m not stupid enough to ask.

I grabbed a kitchen chair and parked myself outside the bathroom where I could watch. This was ‘his’ bathroom. It was my house but we did not live together. I had a second, smaller bathroom downstairs leaving this one a place he could keep a bewildering array of makeup pencils, creams, brushes and ointments.

He was nude except for hosiery and heels that he’d stepped into as soon as he could discard his office clothes. It slowed him down but he knew how much I enjoyed watching how the heels made his ass checks move while he was working on his face.

I can’t give you an intelligible description of what he did to his face. To me it just looked like he put stuff on, then wiped it off. Drew invisibly on his face with some sort of pencil. Even though his art only baffled me it was always very sexy to watch him work.

It took him about twenty minutes. When he was done his eyes had somehow become bright, beautiful and very womanly. His chin mysteriously looked much stronger. And in my mind was becoming a girl. A girl named Alexis.

Putting on a simple short black skirt and top took moments. She did struggle briefly to get his wig on. The hair wasn’t very long and was thick, black and straight. It had cost her more than I cared to think.

Finished she turned around for my approval. I always felt a glow of pride that my pretty guy was also a handsome woman. Since we were going out I could look but not touch.

Ready to leave he slung a handbag over her shoulder. Casual is very polite description of how I dress so I’m always ready. We got in her car for the very good reason that I don’t know how to drive (a long story of no interest here). I always call her my ‘chaufferette’ when we drive anywhere.

The restaurant was middling. I don’t care much about eating out. But Alexis does and I couldn’t think of a better way to spend the time to make her happy. Besides we weren’t really here to eat.

Alexis’s expression was unreadable: maybe kind of drunken, or something animal. Doubtlessly really humiliated the humiliation satisfied a deep hunger.

In a way the meal was already over before we’d eaten anything. We agreed we couldn’t take this too far. Someone might try to rescue the ‘little lady.’

Still flush with excitement from scene in the restaurant the kiss she gave me before we got in the car assured me I’d have a hot and passionate slut when we got home.

Her hair was of a cut that looked good on men or women and she didn’t have a wig on. At my request she was wearing her PVC thigh boots, hot pants and a tank top. She looked like a new wave hooker on her day off. I’d asked her to dress that way. She thought I just wanted her looking slutty. That was true enough but I had a special surprise for her.

“Are you arguing with me, bitch-boy?” Mixing gender in my insults is always a warning she understands. There’s the hidden threat that I can wipe off the make up and take off the women’s clothing. That I can force Alexis to be Alex.

“Get down on your hands and knees in front of me. Now, bitch.” It had actually taken a lot of effort at first for me to call her nasty names but that only excited her alot. “And keep your mouth shut.”

I think she was a little worried that I was going to spank her with it. We set hand spanking as a limit. I’d sometimes threaten to use the leash as a belt. If she’d been able to think clearly she’d know that I’d never violate our contract.

When we were out on the grass I stopped and gave her leash a gentle tug, her signal to sit up on her knees and look me in the face.

“You’ve started to forget that you are mine to do with as I want. You are my pet. To remind you I’m going to take you on a walk around the edge of the yard. We are going to walk along all four sides of the yard. If you are lucky nobody will she you. If you aren’t …” I just shrugged.

The chances were vanishingly small that either of the people living at the side or rear would come out and se anything. There were trees and bushes long two of the fences blocking off lots of view. But in the small residual chance that they might lay the thrill.

I was heartless. “I could just lock you up here on the back porch for the evening. You are going to do exactly what I tell you and do it now. Make me wait and I’ll make it worse.”

It seemed to take much longer than it could’ve as we went along one fence, another, yet another and eventually were back at the back door.

Sitting in a chair I held her in my lap. She murmured something, I hadn’t any idea what but it was probably thanks. She was still recovering from the huge mental orgasm that only a satisfied sub feels and understands.

How about some limericks (in lieu of green beer) to celebrate the day.  Tom Allen of The Edge of Vanilla asks:  Breathes there a man (or woman) with soul so dead that they can’t appreciate a good limerick?  So here are a few created by the very man himself, starring some people you just might know (though he’s never written one about me —  can ya believe it?):

A brash dominatrix named Jones
Would reduce all her boyfriends to moans
By her erotical knowledge
(not acquired in college)
Of painful erogenous zones.

***

A new dominatrix named Kate
Was breaking a new subby-mate;
When she asked how he fared
he said he was scared,
But her caning technique was first-rate.

***

Gillette, a hard-working hooker
Was such an enchanting good looker,
There were fights ‘mongst the fuzz
Over whose turn it was
To pinch her, and frisk her, and book her.

Now Mr. Allen is rather self-deprecating when it comes to his talent.  But I think those are pretty damn good.  I surely can’t even begin to write limericks.  Although, in my defense, I will say that the writing of limericks is pretty much a man’s game, at least most of the time.  You can read more of Tom’s kinky lil’ compositions by clicking here.

But wait!  Once upon a time in Kitten Land, I actually did have a few limericks written just for me:

Here is a limerick written
By a reader who finds himself smitten
By Angela’s prose
And the passion she shows
In the things that she writes for sex-kitten.

In person, her talk must be racy.
Her underwear, no doubt, is lacy.
But sexier still
Are the words from her quill,
 Which she publishes now, thanks to Gracie.

Some people like leather, I’ve heard.
By some, domination’s preferred.
But for me, more exciting
Is Angela’s writing:
The brain tease, the mind fuck, the word!

***

A cyber pussy so many adore
Created a site with class galore
By enlisting the greatest minds of Eros
She challenged these sensual heroes
with inkfilled sabers to extoll
and with cerebral words cajole
A readership of sextelligentsia

***

There once was the EclecticPearl…..
whose ways made his mind just swirl….

She’d whisper such smut,
t’would twitch mind and butt….

soon making his toes slowly curl!!!

Okay, so maybe my guys kinda-sorta broke the rules a little bit, but they showed up in fine spirit and with much gusto did the job.  Isn’t that just about as Irish as you can get?

Top of the Even’n to ya!

xo, Angela