Slicker
by David Trinidad

came in a pink,
orange and white
striped metal tube,
with a black curlicue
border and a splayed
gold base. It came
in any number of
mod shades: Nippy
Beige, Chelsea Pink,
Poppycock, Hot Nec-
taringo, Pinkadilly,
Dicey Peach. There
were several tubes in
my mother’s makeup
drawer in the bath-
room five out of six
of us used (my father
had his own bathroom,
as forbidden as the
walk-in closet where
his Playboys were
hidden under a stack
of sweaters on the top
shelf). All the girls
at school had Slicker
in their purses; I
watched them apply
The London Look
at the beginning and
end of each class. I
marveled at what else
spilled out: compact,
mascara brush, eye
shadow, wallet, troll
doll, dyed rabbit’s
foot, chewing gum,
tampon, pink plastic
comb. At home I
stared at myself in
the medicine cabinet
mirror and, as my
brother pounded
on the locked bath-
room door, twisted
a tube and rubbed,
ever so slightly,
Slicker on my lips. 

***

I imagine that for many girly-boys this is pretty much how it all started.

Wickipedia on David Trinidad

An Interview with David Trinidad

Books by David Trinidad

Thanks to he who shall not be obeyed  (he knows who he is) for turning me on to this extra special piece.  Let me exuberantly note that this is positive proof that  Kink and Art need NOT be mutually exclusive and can, in fact, snuggle up quite nicely together.  But then again, if you knew the guys I knew, this would come as no surprise.

xo, Angela

Hello, this is Angela.

Er, this is Mr. X.  How are you today, Angela?

Well, Mr. X, I’m fine.  How did you find me today, over the phone or on the Internet?

I saw your website and you are so damn sexy.

Well, thank you Mr. X.  Was there anything at my website that particularly caught your attention?

You are just so hot.

Okayyyy … Well, do you want to tell me what you’re into?  Or are you the shy type?

No, I’m not shy.

So where do you want to go today?  What are you looking for exactly?

I like sex – any kind of sex.

Okay, let’s try this.  I’m going to give you a little sex quiz.  I will describe a scenario and you rate it from one to ten, with ten me the hottest.

Yeah, let’s do that.

A woman in stockings and heels.

Five.

A woman who takes control.

Five.

Lesbian sex.

Three.

Gay sex.

Four and a half.

A woman tying you up and teasing your cock.

Three.

A woman with a strap-on.

Two.

Anal sex.

Four.

Cuckolding.

What’s that?

**********

Obviously this conversation was not going to go anywhere.  Mr. X may not have been shy, but he certainly was lukewarm and just really didn’t have a clue. 

But I did have a clue, right from the start.  First of all, when Mr. X referred to my "website" it was immediately apparent he was actually referring to the business platform where I have listings.  He was not familiar with my websites which include this blog, Blistered Lips or Literate Smut.  Secondly, I purposely use commercial pics on that platform, which are suggestive and sexy, but are obviously not me.  So how did he know that I was "just so hot?"

I always ask a new caller how he found me, because with guys who haven’t checked out my site, there is definitely a learning curve.  If they’ve checked me out, we more or less are already starting out on the same page, which makes it so much easier and fun for both of us.  In other words, when someone takes the time to check out the service I provide, he is calling because he is pretty sure I am just what he is looking for.  On the other hand, the Mr. X type usually just want a pussy with a voice.  Bleh.

And what in heck does "I like sex" mean?  Of course you do, Mr. X.  We all like sex.  But sex, particularly phone sex or at least my version of it, is multi-faceted.  I mean, come on, you are a man, after all.  You must be surfing for porn at least on occasion.  We have swinging, foot fetishes, shemales, BBWs, leather scenes, bondage, oral sex, cross dressing, mutual masturbation, spanking, lingerie, fuck me pumps, prostate milking, orgasm denial, interracial, all kinds of role play (governess, secretary, teacher, employer, medical, etc.), objectification, erotic hypnotism, BDSM, romantic, slutty … and on and on and on.  Can’t you pick something?  What do you think about when you jerk off? 

My little quiz is pretty standard when the guy just isn’t putting anything on the table.  It’s a way for me to try to get a handle on just what should happen next, and has many times actually turned a call that started off on the wrong foot into something pretty darn special.  Unfortunately, Mr. X just wasn’t too enthused about anything.

I finally just took control and did a "guided masturbation" scenario and Mr. X went away happy.

I, on the other hand, developed a migraine.

xo, Angela

‘Twas Feb Fourteenth —
A day of days!
I dialed you up,
My heart ablaze.
Seeking sexual succor
With a well-turned phrase
And erotic talk,
Without clichés.
You led me into
A tangled maze
Of forbidden couplings
In perfumed chalets;
Carnal samplings
from mixed buffets;
Symphonies of lust!
Psychosexual Monets!

Our call’s now over,
I’m in a daze.
I linger limply
Upon my chaise.
My credit card’s
In a depleted phase.
But your call!
Ah! It was a polonaise!

I’ve penned these words
To give you praise.
Five-stars are silly.
You deserve bouquets!
Angela, the nymph
Of the phone-ways.
You’ve turned my loins
To mayonnaise!

(isn’t he a doll?  thanks, PQS)

….you might as well drop your panties and spread your legs. Because, sooner or later, he is going to have his way with you

Last night, after a busy day of “much ado about nothing,” I was wired-tired. You’ve been there, right? Feeling all day like your left foot was nailed to the floor as your right one kept running you around in endless circles? Yeah, one of those days. So I was really ready to call it quits. Fresh from a hot bath I was looking forward to calling it a night and had been about the business of doing just that when my muse showed up.

"Not tonight, dear," I told him. "I have a headache."

But he was having none of it. Hopping up onto my shoulder, he pulled out his teeny-tiny muse-monkey and began spanking it. Not this time, I thought to myself, determined to ignore his lewd, rhythmic keystrokes—right there, beside my ear.

"You know you want it, Angela," he whispered.

“No. No I don’t, Muse. Please go away.”

I looked longingly at the just-poured glass of merlot sitting on the kitchen counter top only a few steps away. I imagined the beautifully-bound anniversary edition of To Kill a Mockingbird awaiting me just down the hall—perched atop the pillows I’d just fluffed. I thought of the bedside lamp, its amber nimbus waiting to surround me in the sweetest of solitudes as I sank into my pillow to sip my wine and read a page or two of Harper Lee’s masterpiece before drifting off to higher ground.

“Go to your keyboard, Angela.”

Muse’s voice had taken on that sexy growl, the seductive tenor that always makes my little slut-digits quiver. I whimpered. He chuckled—that familiar sleazy snarl of a chuckle. Oh, how I hate you, you insatiable bastard. As if he could read my thoughts, Muse grunted, spit a gob of ink on his little quill and stroked faster. We both watched the jetty fluid oozing from between his pumping fingers, smearing across his knuckles.

I was getting hot—hot to trot right over to my keyboard and writhe, I mean write. The raunchy little raconteur inside me began to tremble. I wanted Muse’s hot jizz to conjugate and punctuate and catenate me. And his grizzled sneer told me Muse knew it.

“Nouns, adverbs, adjectives.”

“Muse, please stop. You know that sentence is incomplete.”

“Then fix it, Angela. You know you can’t resist.” His breath, smelling of parchment and indigo, blew across my fevered face. “Get your panties off and get your horny fingers over to that fucking computer and diddle with that fragment.”

“But…”

“I know, baby. I’ll make it good. Remember the old days? When we did it on everything? Index cards, notebooks, legal pads, steno pads and even napkins. Remember how you liked being bent over that Underwood you found at the yard sale?”

“Okay, Muse. Damn it, you’re right. Do me. Bend me like a bitch over that keyboard and make me your whore. Shove that fragment in front of my face and have your way with me. Use me like the pencil-pushing slut (virgule) strumpet (virgule) tramp (virgule) harlot that I am.”

“I knew you’d give it up,” Muse sniggered as he positioned me in front of the computer. “Now, you filthy little ink-slinging Pandora, listen to this.”

Hunched over the keyboard I opened wide as he started pumping it into me: “Participles, linking verbs, superlative adjectives… You want more?”

“Give it to me, Muse. Give it to me fast and hard and dirty.”

“Grammar, punctuation, conjunctions, interjections, gerunds…”

“Oh, yes! That’s it. Do me. Pound it in to me.”

“Factitive verbs, predicate nominatives, indefinite pronouns, past participles, appositive phrases …”

Muse had me where he wanted me. He knew the dirty truth about the both of us: That I am his whore and he is my whoremonger. It’s been that way since I first picked up a pen. And so I wrote and I wrote and I wrote. Until his profane solicitations became the rhythmic movement of my sticky little fingers across the keyboard and once again, as he always does, the Muse had his way with me.

***

I wrote this piece for my semi-regular column at Sex Kitten.  As I noted a while back, it stirred up some positive attention, which made this little FemDom PhoneSex Wanna Be Writer Girl mighty happy.  But I suspect some of you have had neither the opportunity nor inclination to track it down.   Personally, it’s a fav of mine and so I thought I’d put it out there today for you stragglers.  Not to mention if frees up the time I would have spent writing a blog entry today for somewhat nastier pursuits.

I hope you like it. 

xo, Angela

Kryptonite
Ron Koertge 

Lois liked to see the bullets bounce
off Superman’s chest, and of course
she was proud when he leaned into
a locomotive and saved the crippled
orphan who had fallen on the tracks. 

Yet on those long nights when he was
readjusting longitude or destroying
a meteor headed right for some nun,
Lois considered carrying just a smidgen
of kryptonite in her purse or at least
making a tincture to dab behind her ears. 

She pictured his knees giving way,
the color draining from his cheeks.
He’d lie on the couch like a guy with
the flu, too weak to paint the front
porch or take out the garbage. She
could peek down his tights or draw
on his cheek with a ball point. She
might even muss his hair and slap
him around.

“Hey, what’d I do?” he’d croak just
like a regular boyfriend. At last.

***

So, for the first time ever, I’ve reprinted a poem already featured here at Zen.  Now this is extra special dontcha know, because the act of doing so totally fucks with my artistic sensibilities and weird sense of "rightness."  To bring this to you in all one big cohesive piece, this Catholic-school-girl-gone-bad, FemDom-in-control has violated her own "blog esthetics."  I normally don’t include art or pix with my PSOetry entries and I never repeat myself.   Okay, maybe I do repeat myself, but only when what I have to say should be said again or should be heard again. 

Take this picture for example:  how could I publish this picture without including the freakin’ poem?  I mean they do go together like cotton and candy, Nick and Nora, pizza and beer, stockings and garters, Victoria and her Secret.

So don’t just be here for the pictures.  Read the poem!  (Besides, if you found your way here in the midst of a porn jones, you are surely going to starve.)

Do it because you love me, do it because your a submissive and/or a submissive sissy and you don’t dare say "no" to me, do it because you appreciate poetry, do it because you aren’t so super keen on what’s required of your "manliness," do it ‘cuz I said so.

And quit your whining about the whole damn thing, lest I send Lois Lane to kick your bitch ass.

xo, Angela

BTW:  The same Mr. J who turned me on to this poem sent me the picture.  And we all thank him.  Don’t we?