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Angela St. Lawrence is the reigning queen of high-end phone sex, providing esoteric depravity for the aficionado, specializing in Erotic Fetish, Female Domination, Cock Control, Kinky Taboo and Sensual Debauchery. To make an appointment or speak with Ms. St. Lawrence  CLICK HERE.

Happy Birthday, Mr. Shakespeare

April 23rd, 2014

… and thank you for telling it like it is:

Why dost thou lash that whore? Strip thine own back.
Thou hotly lust’st to use her in that kind
For which thou whipp’st her. The usurer hangs the cozener.



xo, Angela

(with a special shout-out to my beloved Avon Bard)

More at Zen Fetish:  Shakespeare:  Pussy-whipped and Cuckolded

What the Cuckold says about me …

April 22nd, 2014


She gets it …

… every time she gets it and she nails it on the head while simultaneously probing to expand boundaries.


we know

Which is how it should be. Don’t you think?

xo, Angela

P.S.   Though he’s permanently off pussy and I’ve for all intents and purposes ruined his cock, it is a turn-on that he can spell simultaneously and use proper grammar.  Such a clever Cucky.

It’s Easter, bitch.

April 20th, 2014
easter mayem
Photo via Unexplained Pictures

Well, I was planning on running an Easter special.  It didn’t work out, but you guys know that,  just like the Easter Bunny,  I always deliver the goodies, and will come up with something soon that will Rock Your Cocks.

I’m also writing this post early evening of Easter day … because, well, I really really really was busy doing the Easter thing for my mother. I made her a basket with all kinds of goodies (shampoo, perfume, nail polish, chewing gum, bracelet, candy … all the little things that make her happy), and helped with an Easter party for her and her friends.  See? I really do have a reasonably adequate excuse for the No Discount Holiday Phone Sex.

Then again, I have to say that even as a child, I never really was overly excited by Easter.  Nor birthdays, come to think of it.  Nor any holidays requiring picnicking (unless there’s a swimming pool). Yup, it’s pretty much just Thanksgiving and Christmas that wets my loins.  Nonetheless, I did go out of my way for this one and I’m on-the-verge-of collapsing tired and glad to be back home.  First, you and this blog. Then the sofa and a glass of wine. And then, the best part,  bed and a book.  Mmmmmm.

Before I go …

Just in time for Easter: Muppet Christ Superstar You can listen for FREE, but don’t be a putz. Donate generously.

So pretty: Dressed Up Easter Eggs

And guess what Dark Gracie did for Easter?  She tweeted her intentions, so think on this for the rest of your Holiday:

And then there’s The Peruvian prisoners rocking those iron bars and with their production of Jesus Christ Superstar, and I love them for it.

My Pope Francis is a Rock Star. And don’t you forget it.

Ya know, there are those *other* Easter Eggs that keep on giving all year round.

Easter Joke:  What did the Easter Egg say to the boiling water?   It’s going to take awhile to get me hard I just got laid by some chick!

Sooo …

If you’re missing me or the thought of Dark Gracie lounging naked in bed has stirred your Phone Bone,  check out NiteFlirt, where the girls are so hot they will melt your jelly beans.  (And if you’re new around there, you will get 3 FREE minutes for your first call.)


How to Find Your Bliss

April 16th, 2014

pleasing me schedule

start here:

Correction Imprinting Obedience Servitude

ext: 0331122

one single syllable …

April 14th, 2014

Permission Granted

by David Allen Sullivan

You do not have to choose the bruised peach
or misshapen pepper others pass over.
You don’t have to bury
your grandmother’s keys underneath
her camellia bush as the will states.

You don’t need to write a poem about
your grandfather coughing up his lung
into that plastic tube—the machine’s wheezing
almost masking the kvetching sisters
in their Brooklyn kitchen.

You can let the crows amaze your son
without your translation of their cries.
You can lie so long under this
summer shower your imprint
will be left when you rise.

You can be stupid and simple as a heifer.
Cook plum and apple turnovers in the nude.
Revel in the flight of birds without
dreaming of flight. Remember the taste of
raw dough in your mouth as you edged a pie.

Feel the skin on things vibrate. Attune
yourself. Close your eyes. Hum.
Each beat of the world’s pulse demands
only that you feel it. No thoughts.
Just the single syllable: Yes

See the homeless woman following
the tunings of a dead composer?
She closes her eyes and sways with the subways. Follow her down,
inside, where the singing resides.

Particularly lovely, hm?

So much so that I might tape it to my forehead. Or at least keep it in the white Dooney & Bourke (Thank you, Puzzler) that I just switched to for Spring.

Just so I might remember to say: Yes

Mr. Sullivan’s books at Amazon.

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