Bitchy Jones has a lot to say about Professional Dominatrixes and what a crock the whole shebang is. Since I do the Phone Domme Thing, you’d think I would just hate her to pieces. But I don’t. Quite honestly, I think she brings up valid points to which real men looking for real domination should pay close attention. Some random quotes:

• Defining the word, MISTRESS: A word that, if it ever had any erotic potential, has been completely destroyed by the femdom destroying triptych of femdom porn, prodoms and porn-drunk submissive men who write about their SO on their blogs like this, "˜Mistress said we should go to the shops."  Mistress is not her fucking name. Stop wanking and remember she’s a human-fucking-being.
• To WANNABE SUBMISSIVE MEN: You have created a woman repelling space full of unreasonable expectations of female physicality, predatory sexual creepiness, penis fixation (just because you’ve locked it in a plastic cage doesn’t mean you aren’t still letting your world revolve around it) and pay-for-play as an acceptable norm.
• On SEXLESS FEMALE DOMINATION: Why does so much of femdomland act as if being vaginally penetrated is some kind of huge annoying inconvenience to women that we are never going to grant you because,  "oh, you are not worthy."
• On a MISTRESS SUCKING COCK: I would rather suck *his* cock than have him suck a fake cock bolted to me. I *like* sucking cock. I don’t do things I don’t like and I have no desire to "˜get revenge" on men for all the cock sucking I have done. Besides I can suck cock from the top. Really. On my knees and everything. And I prefer that. I prefer skin touching skin. It’s this weird fetish I have for, you know, having my nerve endings stimulated.

So, Bitchy is bitching….and making a lot of sense. There’s a lot more…go see for yourself.

Collectively, Phone Mistresses are all about YOUR fantasy. We aren’t going to do the meet and beat with you. We are Phone Sex Operators, many of us utilizing a variety of identities to cash in on every possible kink, fetish or fantasy that might bring us a buck. We want your money and we want you to call back often. I am always having to remind my callers to get a grip. An ethical PSO would tell you the same.

Unfortunately, not all of my ilk are ethical. One of the things I always harp on–here in this blog and even when kicking ass on the telephone–is that a clear division between fantasy and reality is imperative. Otherwise, you might as well kiss happiness goodbye. I actually wrote a piece on this, Fantasy Mistress: Just a Figment of Your BDSM Desires, for the book, Sex Kitten Presents the BDSM Issue. In which I said:

When the fantasy of being dominated supersedes the reality of life, perceptions are skewed, relationships are handicapped, and growth (emotional and sexual) is stunted. Lovers, girlfriends, and wives are compared to the idealized Mistress and can never measure up. This is not only grossly unfair to these (very real!) women; it reeks of addiction and is a recipe for unhappiness for everyone involved. Ironically, it is the obsession that ultimately becomes the Mistress, a heteromorphic form of self-domination.

Not all men want to actually BE DOMINATED FOR REAL, thank you very much. They want their impossible fantasy, just for a little bit. They are self-aware enough, and perhaps even self-protective enough, to occasionally get their dirty little itch scratched (via a phone dom or a pro dom), and then get back to the business of their everyday lives.

I actually understand wanting a fantasy and not a reality. Because what I get off on by myself and what I get off with a partner are two very different things. But if you’re a guy who thinks you just gotta have the real deal, then you need to be reading Bitchy. She is a real dom…doing it for her pleasure and not for bucks. If she’s going to hurt you, she is going to do it her way. And it is going to make her very hot. That is, dearheart, what true domination is all about. Are you man enough?

xo, Angela

I really don’t like using a lot of pics with Zen Fetish, so I at least try to space out my entries which do include pics. And since Mistress V and entourage took center stage yesterday, I really thought twice about even doing this today. It’s just a matter of my slightly obsessive aesthetics. Brought to you by the same girl who has to have every towel folded the same and then stacked in the pantry with the right edges perfectly aligned.

But I’d been saving the above image just for today, just for you.  So, after some internal debate, I said to myself, “Nuts!  I’m going with it.”  PQS?  Did I just hear you groan?

Anyway, Happy Trick or Treat Day. Remember: Don’t take candy from strangers. But a joint or line of coke is fine.

xo, Angela

My beautiful and wonderful friend, Mistress V, got married! And, fellows, let me tell you, it was not your everyday, average wedding. Then again, when does Miss V do anything average? I don’t even think that word is in her vocabulary.

The minister, Slave Groom Greg and Mistress Bride V.

And don’t you just love the wedding cake?

The ceremony was simply divine. You are Cordially Invited.

***

Did you give the happy couple a nice wedding gift?

Or you can always give a cash “Goddess” tribute.

***

And to Mistress V and Slave Greg: I wish you all the best. You’re very special people and I’m sure the world has many good things in store for both of you.

xo, Angela

Casey at the Bat ~ Ernest Thayer

The Outlook wasn’t brilliant for the Mudville nine that day:
The score stood four to two, with but one inning more to play.
And then when Cooney died at first, and Barrows did the same,
A sickly silence fell upon the patrons of the game.

A straggling few got up to go in deep despair. The rest
Clung to that hope which springs eternal in the human breast;
They thought, if only Casey could get but a whack at that –
We’d put up even money, now, with Casey at the bat.

But Flynn preceded Casey, as did also Jimmy Blake,
And the former was a lulu and the latter was a cake;
So upon that stricken multitude grim melancholy sat,
For there seemed but little chance of Casey’s getting to the bat.

But Flynn let drive a single, to the wonderment of all,
And Blake, the much despis-ed, tore the cover off the ball;
And when the dust had lifted, and the men saw what had occurred,
There was Jimmy safe at second and Flynn a-hugging third.

Then from 5,000 throats and more there rose a lusty yell;
It rumbled through the valley, it rattled in the dell;
It knocked upon the mountain and recoiled upon the flat,
For Casey, mighty Casey, was advancing to the bat.

There was ease in Casey’s manner as he stepped into his place;
There was pride in Casey’s bearing and a smile on Casey’s face.
And when, responding to the cheers, he lightly doffed his hat,
No stranger in the crowd could doubt ’twas Casey at the bat.

Ten thousand eyes were on him as he rubbed his hands with dirt;
Five thousand tongues applauded when he wiped them on his shirt.
Then while the writhing pitcher ground the ball into his hip,
Defiance gleamed in Casey’s eye, a sneer curled Casey’s lip.

And now the leather-covered sphere came hurtling through the air,
And Casey stood a-watching it in haughty grandeur there.
Close by the sturdy batsman the ball unheeded sped-
“That ain’t my style,” said Casey. “Strike one,” the umpire said.

From the benches, black with people, there went up a muffled roar,
Like the beating of the storm-waves on a stern and distant shore.
“Kill him! Kill the umpire!” shouted someone on the stand;
And its likely they’d a-killed him had not Casey raised his hand.

With a smile of Christian charity great Casey’s visage shone;
He stilled the rising tumult; he bade the game go on;
He signaled to the pitcher, and once more the spheroid flew;
But Casey still ignored it, and the umpire said, “Strike two.”

“Fraud!” cried the maddened thousands, and echo answered fraud;
But one scornful look from Casey and the audience was awed.
They saw his face grow stern and cold, they saw his muscles strain,
And they knew that Casey wouldn’t let that ball go by again.

The sneer is gone from Casey’s lip, his teeth are clenched in hate;
He pounds with cruel violence his bat upon the plate.
And now the pitcher holds the ball, and now he lets it go,
And now the air is shattered by the force of Casey’s blow.

Oh, somewhere in this favored land the sun is shining bright;
The band is playing somewhere, and somewhere hearts are light,
And somewhere men are laughing, and somewhere children shout;
But there is no joy in Mudville – mighty Casey has struck out.

***

An apropos PSOetry entry, in light of the Rockies’ World Series debacle. Miss Angela is sad, but thinks her boys are still brilliantly beautiful. And just might show up in person for next season’s home games. I’ll be the girl with the whip. (wink)

Don’t tell Luscious One, but I’ve suddenly caught a little bit–just a little bit, mind you–of a sports bug. Strange creatures, these bugs: They cause you to yell and curse and call people you don’t even know very nasty names.

Because last night I found myself channeling the rowdy, bellowing spirits of every uncle and cousin, my father and brothers, and all their man friends who, huddled around our family television, populated my Thanksgivings, weekends and many a Monday night when I was a child. The only thing missing was beer and hot wings. Although there was a pizza.

Back in my little girl days, it didn’t matter if it was football or hockey or basketball or baseball… the boys always showed up. It didn’t even matter if the teams were of any significance to them. If televised activities included a puck or a bat or a ball or special gear and a whole lot of uncensored testosterone, the guys took over the tube.

Which is probably why I’ve always had a profound aversion to professional sports. And hugely resent ESPN being part of the cable package for which I pay. A rankling which, by the way, grew tenfold when I discovered PSO telephones only ring sporadically when the huddling and punting and spitting and dribbling et al are in play.

(Come to think of it, maybe I should be happy to discover that men occasionally find something more interesting than their built-in gear shifts.)

But this time it’s the Rockies; alliances and circumstances call for a certain allegiance. So I’ve shown up, toting some semblance of team spirit. The problem is that if I show up, I do so expecting my team to kick ass. So far, as you know, that is far from the case.

Tonight it might all be over. And I just don’t even know how to feel about that. Relief, that I’m finally put out of my misery? Disappointment, for the Rockies and their fans? Or maybe I will become a super fan next year and cheer them on the next World Series.

I’m told everything could change tonight; that they could still pull it out of the collective cap. And, quite honestly, I still have hope. But if it doesn’t happen, well….

….there’s always next year. And the year after. And the rest of my life, damn it.

Play Ball!

xo, Angela