[youtube:http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QLJu0BNBmLc&autoplay=0 300 375]

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

Just so you know. 

My sister, Bethany, is in town and my entire week has been turned upside down as I do the loving sister/dutiful daughter routine.  I’m having a good time and spending too much money. 

We’ve been out to dinner twice (Olive Garden and a local steak house), did a mini-spa thingy (my treat at $300 for the two of us … really not so bad), watched Judge Judy with my mother, went for a hike and played pinochle with my brother and his wife.  We also went shopping so she could find some neat things to take home to her family.  She found two things which cost her a total of $25, while I found two angel statuettes (I collect them) and blew $150.

Tonight we are going gambling, which — added to the above — means I won’t even look at my bank account until sometime later next week.  It hurts less that way.

If you have something important you need to tell me, feel free to write me (angela @ zensmut dot com) and I will try to get back to you in between the hoopla.  I miss you a lot and can’t wait to get back into my phone groove.  Too much off time just kind of makes me nervous.

Since I haven’t been available for phone and probably won’t be for the next couple days, I thought I’d give you some busy work.  I mean, the idle mind is the devil’s workshop and all that jazz.  So below is a list.  And I do expect you to pay attention, because I picked every item out especially for you.  Besides there might be a test.  Which means there might be a winner who gets a special prize.  I don’t know … hmmm …. maybe a pair of stockings?  a half price call?  a free erotic story written by yours truly?

So here you go: …

1. If you’re looking for a GFE (girl friend experience), check out (and then call) Nikki at Phone Sex Sweetie.
2. Are you an ass man?  Read Tom Allen’s piece, (S+C) x (B + F)/(T-V) and download The Ass-timator absolutely Free.  What a deal!
   
3. Want to read an interesting, humorous, thoughtful and even reader-friendly take on possibly the weirdest fetish ever?  PervScan’s Necrophilia Variations is the book for you.
4. Are you smarter than me?  Then why aren’t you reading Fleurs De Mal and Reality Studio?  Huh?
5. If you need to sweep your floors but would rather dance, then have I got the perfect thing for you.
6. Hot Wife Laura:  Check out her site, bookmark it, then call her.  I have it from the highest authority that she gives seriously good cam!
7. From Doctor Dick:  All you wanted to know about butt plugs, but were afraid to ask.
8. And of course you can always go shopping for dirty stories, hot videos, sexy MP3s, and even exchange some titillating banter in between purchases.
9. Want to fall in love with a dominant woman?  Visit Femdom Romance and Femdom Dating for thoughtful and informative tips and discussion.
10. Buy a Fleshlight and/or Aneros and let the fun begin!  Courtesy of the the delightful, devious and wonderful  Mistress V (she shows me where all the good stuff is). 

So that ought to keep you entertained and out of trouble.  Off I go to break the bank.  Or is that to break my bank?

God help me.

xo, Angela

Black

by The Provocateur

(U)nless one wants to live a stunningly boring life, one ought to be on good terms with one’s darker side and one’s darker energies.”

She is a dominatrix and I am standing at her iron gate, waiting for her to answer. I don’t say this out loud, but: I come to her not to be dominated by her – nor anything else outside myself.

My lips are the color of a Clockwork Orange and when she opens the door, I do not tell her that I am here to violently reconquer myself. I do not tip my hat and tell her that I am here to put myself back together again.

Couple that with my broken heart and clearly: I am not very smart at all. The evidence is in the previous weeks of my life where, the stars have reflected exactly what the days have said: I am weak. This is weak. This week. The week before.

I believed that I was giving shape to love. And I was ready for love to shape me. But I lost track of minutes and murky moments. I started to drown. And then, I did.

Ever the exhibitionist, she neatly crawls up onto her purple couch and sticks her ass in the air. We joke, saying that, clearly, this must be her first time in front of a camera.

I can feel the blood surging to my midsection. My face becomes flushed. And, unbeknownst to me, for the next couple of hours I will forget everything beyond that front door and swelling darkly inside me.

Apart from that, I am no master at all. Laziness and pride has infected me. My internal world, a detritus which has proved caustic to everything outside of me, or,

Swirling in the unbelief and ethereal uncertainty that the death of love carries under its vulture wings and I have broken myself completely down. Taken everything apart. Bolts and screws and plugs and radiators, all laid-out before me now as a ghost; me as an empty vessel. Me as something that is the sum total of all the parts and bolts and gaskets.

I am snapping away and she crawls onto the teal bed. There is a wine glass full of water on the nightstand that her cat drinks out of. In the background is the sound of the ocean swelling and receding. Industrial music in the other room.

She tells me that she is wild, but it is unnecessary. I know this already. If I didn’t, I wouldn’t return like I have. Whichever way, without words, you can see it in her eyes. In her tattoos. In the way that she begins to run her fingers up and down her clothed cunt as she splays her legs open before me.

On the other hand, I fear the simpletons. I revile the medians in the middle of my road. I am not impressed by you, but always astounded and intrigued by what you do.

I do not want network television and sit-coms and remedial tasks, boring college degrees and shopping in malls, for leisure. I do not care about your pedestrian celebrities, or the fact that they fill that dying place in you, one of many, where you are hollow and infantile.

I want something developed. If it is light, then shine on me. Burn me. If it is dark, let me crawl into it. And let it crawl into me.

However, I feel it: I am beginning to resurface – from the nearly irreversible sadness that I believe I will carry with me for the rest of my days. Yes, it is this serious: When you gamble with your heart, you gamble with the whole fabric of your entire being.

Only days later and: I am older now. Now I am changed. Now I do not think about her as much. Now I do not wonder where or what or how she is doing. This despite the fact that I would still kiss her cheek softly, or race to rescue…

The dominatrix is completely naked and writhing on her bed. She is contorting into every conceivable position. She opens her legs and shows me all of her wet sex. She teases me the way she teases the camera.

I conceptualize the word “naked” and as I am unbuttoning my shirt I think about how I didn’t even remember putting on the fabric that I came with. I have felt so bare for so long. As I peel my shirt off, the dominatrix snaps away and I feel that my skin is charred. Sore. Burned.

My cock is being pulled from my pants. I am only a half-participant in the reveal. She is peeling me out and away from myself. Her cold hands and manicured fingers make my head light.

She snaps away on the camera and then cups my cock in her hand as she shoots with her one free hand. I can see the vibrant lust in her eyes, licking and clicking away.

If you cannot burn on your own, then please recede from me in peace like the dream that you were. For I want not your counsel, nor your arms…

She is between my legs, helping me give birth. In this regeneration, my cock is alternately in her hand and in her mouth. Sometimes, when she clamps down on me with all of her wicked sensualism, she uses both hands and her entire, wet mouth.

She gives me the camera and turns the light toward us. The light is hot and bulbous as the sun and drowns-out the world beyond her between my splayed legs and my cock sliding in and out of her wet mouth.

Now clothed again, for some etiquette’s sake, she begins to pull off her clothes. I hear her reach under the nightstand and when she comes back out, she wraps my cock in a sheeth and says, now I’m going to fuck you.

When I flip her over, I violently pin her legs up in the air. With all the rage of everything torn and reversed inside of me, I fuck the dominatrix. She is not fucking me.

I am forceful. I am not weak. I am pounding everything I have deep inside of her, and beyond. This is my fuck you, I do not need you, I do not belong here.

As I feel parts of me melting away, dripping from my body, I can feel the condensation of my matter, as though I am in a centrifuge. I can feel the ugly particles, the ugly, black thoughts separating. I can feel something even stronger reanimating my white particles – the particles that I will need two hours from now when I am hunched over my knees and sobbing in the deathly silence of everything behind me.

Where I once had a heart, I am now left with ignorance and sadness. And where a girl once stood before me as a representative of all the love I have to give and receive, I now only see a shadowy figure, blackened and coal.

“I have often longed for peace and tranquility — looked into the lives of others and envied a kind of calmness — and yet I don’t know if this tranquility is what I truly would have wished for myself.”– Kay Redfield Jamison

*****

The Provocateur  — this writer of words that elevate erotica into the realm of  literature — speaks to my heart, my very soul, every single time I find my way to his blog.  Here is where — in the hungry blush of sexual expression, exploration and need — sex is therapy is stigmata is truth is poetry is transformation is introspection is celebration is promenade is psalms is nexus is oxygen is the very marrow of our human-ness. 

Oh, dear reader, please do give yourself the pleasure, the gift, of reading his blog.

xo, Angela

Sometimes I’m just too bored.  And then I’m too lazy to do anything about it.  So I will troll chat rooms and read profiles.  The rooms that really catch my fancy are the ones set up by someone advertising/looking for a specific "other" who will play their kink game with them.  They build the room, then park themselves, waiting to see if anybody bites. So early this a.m. I found the room Haircut4SoCalFem where "ClipDom" had set up shop.  I just had to check out his profile:

Name  Ask.

Location  So Cal/Los Angeles

Gender  Male

Marital Status  Very Divorced

Hobbies & Interests  D/s with some twists. I particularly love women with ultra short boyish haircuts.

Favorite Gadgets  Part of my scene is haircutting, but there is much more.  I love buzzing women’s hair with hairclippers

Occupation  Looking for RT Sub women or women who prefer short hair in the So Cal Area.  Not into Cyber at all don’t even ask.. sorry

Personal Quote  Feel free to IM me. I’m often away from my computer so be patient. I usually don’t bother with people who don’t have profiles.  "That which does not kill you…might leave you with brain damage."

I do hope Mr. ClipDom finds that special girl, although one can imagine why he is "very divorced."  I certainly wouldn’t want a husband chasing me around the house with his erection in one hand and hair clippers in the other! 

Actually, I empathize with Mr. ClipDom.  I mean that has seriously got to be a fetish that causes a guy problems.  We women love our hair.  I just spent 200 plus at the hair salon today (and if I do say so myself, I look mahvelous). 

Of course if you’re cutting corners and are in need of a haircut, Mr. ClipDom just might be the guy for you.  But what happens once he buzzes your tresses?  Do you wait around for a year for them to grow to some reasonable length so he can do it all over again? 

Hmmm …

xo, Angela