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

….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

Well, there’s my way to do it, which includes writing dirty stories, talking dirty on the phone and featuring hot writers such as Jerotic,  Pervert Savant, Sabrina Morgan, The Provocateur, Submissive Savant and Porno Person.   

Then there’s the kind of Smut Slinging which is downright nasty and makes me glad after all that I’m not famous — that I’m just here in my own little corner of the Internet, doing my own quiet, little thing my own dirty little way:

Writers on other Writers

“I have tried lately to read Shakespeare, and found it so intolerably dull that it nauseated me." − Charles Darwin

"Jonathan Swift was a monster gibbering shrieks, and gnashing imprecations against mankind, …" − William Thackeray

"Longfellow is to poetry what the barrel organ is to music" − William Thackeray

"Shelley should not be read, but inhaled through a gas pipe" − Lionel Trilling

"This awful Whitman. This post-mortem poet . . . with the private soul leaking out of him all the time." − Lionel Trilling

"[Ulysses is] the work of a queasy undergraduate scratching his pimples." − Virginia Wolff

"[Henry James was] one of the nicest old ladies I ever met." − William Faulkner

"Reading Proust is like bathing in someone else’s dirty water." − Alexander Woollcott

"[Dylan Thomas was] an outstandingly unpleasant man, one who cheated and stole from his friends and peed on their carpets." − Kingsley Amis

"[George Orwell] would not blow his nose without moralizing on the conditions in the handkerchief industry." − Cyril Connolly

"[Hemingway had] a literary style of wearing false hair on the chest" − Max Eastman

"[Gertrude Stein] was a past master in making nothing happen very slowly" − Clifton Fadiman

"[Auden was] an engaging, bookish, American talent, too verbose to be memorable and too intellectual to be moving" − Philip Larken

"That’s not writing, that’s typing" − Truman Capote on Jack Kerouac

"It is only fair to Allen Ginsberg to remark on the utter lack of decorum of any kind in this dreadful little volume" − John Hollander on Howl

"[Alexander Solzhenitsyn] is a bad novelist and a fool" − Gore Vidal

"[Writers are ] schmucks with Underwoods" − Jack Warner

"[Rod McKuen’s] poetry is not even trash" − Karl Shapiro

"A sausage machine, a perfect sausage machine." − Agatha Christie on Agatha Christie

And thanks to PQS for hooking me up.  Although you’ve been known to criticize my prose and poetry time or two, you always do it just between you and me … and with much adoration and affection.  Which is probably smart of you.  (*wink*)

xo, Angela