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Angela St. Lawrence is the reigning queen of high-end, long distance training and Femme Domme 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  ...


The Boxed Dick, et al.

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?


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)

5 Responses to “The Boxed Dick, et al.”

  1. HDB Says:

    Well, personally, I think this is all a matter of pud-antics.

  2. Carl B. Says:

    I hope you never see my hard drive.

    Actually, there aren’t any dicks there, in a gift-wrapped box or bone naked. (Couldn’t resist the little pun.)

    Probabally a good rule of thumb for men would be to ask ourselves, If I were involved with or interested in a girl in real time, would I send her this in snale mail?

    The problem is that probably some guys would answer yes to that question, and then you’d be back at square one.

  3. hot java Says:

    Once, and only once, I must confess to having sent a pic of my unadorned erector set to my love who lived far away…She either appreciated it given our relationship or tolerated it, given our relationship. In any case, since then, I have never been so moved to repeat this Kodak moment. As a calling card, this would be…ahem….gross.

  4. constant reader Says:

    Note to self: Do not send Angela picture of my most magnificent (if I do say so, myself) organ. Also, remove all evidence of such from hard drive.

  5. puzzler Says:

    I never did before, for reasons of humility. But now I have discovered the zoom function in PhotoShop! Maybe, just for my own-selfesteem? No, better not.

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