Why the Young Men Are So Ugly

Tony Hoagland

They have little tractors in their blood
and all day the tractors climb up and down
inside their arms and legs, their
collarbones and heads.

That is why they yell and scream and slam the barbells
down into their clanking slots,
making the metal ring like sledgehammers on iron,
like dungeon prisoners rattling their chains.

That is why they shriek their tires at the stopsign,
why they turn the base up on the stereo
until it shakes the traffic light, until it
dryhumps the eardrum of the crossing guard.

Testosterone is a drug,
and they say No, No, No until
they are overwhelmed and punch
their buddy in the face for joy,

or make a joke about gravy and bottomless holes
to a middle-aged waitress who is gently
setting down the plate in front of them.

If they are grotesque, if
what they say and do is often nothing more
than a kind of psychopathic fart,

it is only because of the tractors,
the tractors in their blood,
revving their engines, chewing up the turf
inside their arteries and veins
It is the testosterone tractor

constantly climbing the mudhill of the world
and dragging the young man behind it
by a chain around his leg.
In the stink and the noise, in the clouds
of filthy exhaust

is where they live. It is the tractors
that make them
what they are. While they make being a man
look like a disease.

———————————————–

Thus the need for Female Domination.  Because, really,  do young men ever really grow up?  Hmmm.

You can find  a list of Mr. Hoagland’s Poetry Books HERE and an absolutely wonderful piece by him on the nature of poetry HERE

xo, Angela

On the farm lived a chicken and a horse, both of whom loved to play together.  One day the two were playing, when the horse fell into a bog and began to sink. Scared for his life, the horse whinnied for the chicken
to go get the farmer for help!

Off the chicken ran, back to the farm. Arriving at the farm, he searched and searched for the farmer, but to no avail, for he had gone to town with the only tractor. Running around, the chicken spied the farmer’s new BMW. Finding the keys in the ignition, the chicken sped off with a length of rope hoping he still had time to save his friend’s life.

Back at the bog, the horse was surprised, but happy, to see the chicken arrive in the shiny BMW, and he managed to get a hold of the loop of rope the chicken tossed to him. After tying the other end to the rear bumper of the farmer’s bike, the chicken then drove slowly forward and, with the aid of the powerful car, rescued the horse!

Happy and proud, the chicken drove the BMW back to the farmhouse, and the farmer was none the wiser when he returned.

The friendship between the two animals was cemented: Best Buddies, Best Pals.

A few weeks later, the chicken fell into a mud pit, and soon, he too, began to sink and cried out to the horse to save his life! The horse thought a moment, walked over, and straddled the large puddle. Looking underneath, he told the chicken to grab his hangy-down thingy and he would then lift him out of the pit.

The chicken got a good grip, and the horse pulled him up and out, saving his life.

The moral of the story:

… you Don’t Need A BMW To Pick Up Chicks!

What?  Did you think Phone Sex Goddesses don’t get emails?  I’m here to tell you that we not only get emails, we get fuckin’ awesome emails.  Well, at least I know I do. 

That said, anybody who sends me email knows that it’s rare you get a response.  Because, although I read each and every one (oh, yes I do!)  –  I’m a very busy girl.  Really, really.  And if I took the time to answer every email with the "proper" attention it deserved, well, I’d never get anything else done.  As in anything else like Erotic Chatting about Dirty Things over the phone.  As in Phone Sex. 

And I do keep them, each and every one. From my SECRET file  ….

It’s always nice to be thought of:

Hey- 
 
I was out with friends, one of them being a therapist; and I thought to myself,  "I know someone who provides therapeutic value using nothing but her wits and voice." 

And then when walking in the woods, this little bit of poesy came into my head and I thought you would appreciate it:. 
 
The drops on the leaves 
Slid down the canopies 
I smiled as I heard the trees 
Rain down a round of sylvan applause. 
— 
Love, Mr. H

 

Morning after (a three hour) Phone Sex Call:

Good morning, good friend and confidante and muse and lover and "one to whom I can say almost anything" and political transformer (of *me*) and fellow book-lover and theatre buff … and more and more and more. Have a great day!

I guess I, ahem, inspired him:

Dear Angela- 
 
When I was strolling down the street the other day, this is the thought I had: 
 
It all boiled down to this: 
She wanted my body, 
and I am 
a slut.
— 

Who knows where it came from, or where it’s going, but that rang a bell inside me, so I thought I’d share it with you. 

Your Pal, Mr. D.

After a sing-a-long during a Phone Sex Call:

Do you know about the original  ‘The Lion Sleeps Tonight‘  and the the neat history on how the poor Zulu that wrote the song got peanuts for the hit?

Oh, Mr. B.  You’re such a naughty one:

I’m thinking of auctioning off  my next orgasm since it will be two-plus weeks for me.   I didnt’ even do any edging.  Since climaxes usually give me migraines, this one ought to be a doozy!!!  I’ve got to be able to find SOME sadists around who would like a piece of that, right?  All are welcome to play.  However, contest results are final  (and sticky).

_____A.  tickled you pink ‘cuz you can’t wait to frame it next to your Obama poster.

_____B.  mildly amused you ‘cuz it just confirmed your opinion of all men.

_____C.  mildly irritated you ‘cuz you really don’t want to get this unsolicited crap from me especially.

_____D.  really pissed you off.

Pencil down, Ms. St. Lawrence.  You are, by the way, guaranteed an A+, but we can talk about that later in my office. 

Mr. J sent me this cute Joke:

A little old lady, well into her eighties, slowly enters the front door of a sex shop. Obviously very unstable on her feet, she wobbles we way across the store to the counter.   Finally arriving at the counter and grabbing it for support, she stutters to the sales clerk: "Dddooo youuuu hhhave dddddiilllldosss?"

The clerk, politely trying not to burst out laughing, replies: “Yes we do have dildos. Actually we carry many different models."

She asks: ” Ddddooo yyoooouuuu kknnnoooww hhhowww tttooo ttturrrnnn ttthe ssonoooffabbitch offffff?” 

 For my Poetry Jones from PQS

Angie:

Thought you’d like this one:

Fixation
by Ron Padgett

It’s not that hard to climb up
on a cross and have nails driven
into your hands and feet.
Of course it would hurt, but
if your mind were strong enough
you wouldn’t notice. You
would notice how much farther
you can see up here, how
there’s even a breeze
that cools your leaking blood.
The hills with olive groves fold in
to other hills with roads and huts,
flocks of sheep on a distant rise.

So what do you think, Angie? How many people will "get it"?

A little bit of devotion is always nice:

Miss Angela:

I hope you remember speaking with me a few nights ago.  Having never experienced anything like that  encounter, I’ve since been reading Zen Fetish and Blistered Lips. I knew you were special as soon as we’d exchanged a few words and wanted to learn more.  In reading all that you’ve written (what I’ve gotten to so far), I’m in total awe.  Now I understand I was truly, for the first time ever, in the hands of a TRUE  Goddess. 

I want you to know that I’ll be calling again soon, very soon.

I can’t get you out of my head.  But I’m sure you’re very well aware of that.

Sincerely, Slave J.Z

Okay, I think that’s quite enough for today.  I hope you enjoyed kicking the email tires with me, because I have a bunch more, which we will get to at a later date.  Of course they are all hidden away nicely in my SECRET Phone Sex Email File, where they will stay and many more will be added before we do this again. 

In the mean time, check out Ron Padgett’s website HERE. 

And PQS?  Sadly, I don’t think a lot of people will "get it."  But I do, you do, most of my readers do.  And I’m absolutely positive that Vanilla Savant will get it.  He thinks like we do.  What say you, Vanilla Savant?  Anybody else?

To Slave JZ:  Of course I remember you.  Don’t you even think for a moment that I wouldn’t.  You just might be capable of earning highly-coveted title of  "Favored Slave."  We’ll have to see how this all works out, won’t we? 

xo,  Angela

ABBOTT: Super Duper computer store. Can I help you?

COSTELLO: Thanks I’m setting up an office in my den and I’m thinking about buying a computer.

ABBOTT: Mac?

COSTELLO: No, the name’s Lou.

ABBOTT: Your computer?

COSTELLO: I don’t own a computer. I want to buy one.

ABBOTT: Mac?

COSTELLO: I told you, my name’s Lou.

ABBOTT: What about Windows?

COSTELLO: Why? Will it get stuffy in here?

ABBOTT: Do you want a computer with Windows?

COSTELLO: I don’t know. What will I see when I look at the windows?

ABBOTT: Wallpaper.

COSTELLO: Never mind the windows.. I need a computer and software.

ABBOTT: Software for Windows?

COSTELLO: No. On the computer! I need something I can use to write proposals, track expenses and run my business. What do you have?

ABBOTT: Office.

COSTELLO: Yeah, for my office. Can you recommend anything?

ABBOTT: I just did.

COSTELLO: You just did what?

ABBOTT: Recommend something.

COSTELLO: You recommended something?

ABBOTT: Yes.

COSTELLO: For my office?

ABBOTT: Yes.

COSTELLO: OK, what did you recommend for my office?

ABBOTT: Office.

COSTELLO: Yes, for my office!

ABBOTT: I recommend Office with Windows.

COSTELLO: I already have an office with windows! OK, let’s just say I’m sitting at my computer and I want to type a proposal. What do I need?

ABBOTT: Word.

COSTELLO: What word?

ABBOTT: Word in Office.

COSTELLO: The only word in office is office.

ABBOTT: The Word in Office for Windows.

COSTELLO: Which word in office for windows?

ABBOTT: The Word you get when you click the blue ‘W’.

COSTELLO: I’m going to click your blue ‘w’ if you don’t start with some straight answers. What about financial bookkeeping? You have anything I can track my money with?

ABBOTT: Money.

COSTELLO: That’s right. What do you have?

ABBOTT: Money.

COSTELLO: I need money to track my money?

ABBOTT: It comes bundled with your computer.

COSTELLO: What’s bundled with my computer?

ABBOTT: Money.

COSTELLO: Money comes with my computer?

ABBOTT: Yes. No extra charge.

COSTELLO: I get a bundle of money with my computer? How much?

ABBOTT: One copy.

COSTELLO: Isn’t it illegal to copy money?

ABBOTT: Microsoft gave us a license to copy Money.

COSTELLO: They can give you a license to copy money?

ABBOTT: Why not? THEY OWN IT!

(A few days later)

ABBOTT: Super Duper computer store. Can I help you?

COSTELLO: How do I turn my computer off?

ABBOTT: Click on ‘START’…..

_____________________________

(via my email.  Thanks, sis!)

xo, Angela

I think I forgot something.  Hmmm …

Oops.  Were you looking for Phone Sex? 

Have I got a girl (or two or three or even more) for you!

Naughty Natalie 18: A sweet & nasty Fuck Slut.   CLICK HERE

Big Bodacious Bridgette:  Hot! Wet! And waiting for YOU!  CLICK HERE

Flaming Embers: Hot Cougar entertains your fetishes.  CLICK HERE

Insatiable Goddess:  It’s HER world & you are only in it. CLICK HERE

Really, when it’s all said and done, it’s really true that, "it’s only kinky the first time."  I can easily recall every exquisite detail of the first time a boy put me on my hands and knees to have sex.  Oh my, oh my.  I was barely past virginity and I thought I’d be marrying this boy and having babies in the future.  He was a hulking giant (6’4′) of bulk and brawn, and I was a little thing of 105 pounds.  I needed his permission and his man-hungriness lust to encourage me, show me the way.  To teach me to be kinky.  And at that time, being on my hands and knees — naked! — was very kinky, indeed. 

I felt dirty.  I felt slutty.  I felt fucking wonderful.  He could see me, all of me, lusty and lewd and hungry.  Oh, I was so dirty, dirty. dirty.  And he knew it.  And it made his fucking cock so hard to see me losing control like that.  Right there in front of him.  Right there atop my own mother’s coffee table, where he could fondle me and finger me and touch me and eventually … fuck the living daylights out of me.

Later — think of Diane Lane sitting on that bus in ‘Unfaithful’ — over and over again I’d replay what we’d done, how bad I’d been, how dirty and hot I’d felt and how good it was.  Oh it was soooo good to be bad.  It was so damn good and I wanted more, more, more.  And so we continued to learn, explore and stretch our sexuality in new and devious and dirty ways.

My passion (and lust) for that boy eventually waned.  No marriage, no babies.  I was off to college; off to bigger and better things.  I was off to open up the world — open it wide for myself and all my dreams.  It was the only path I could take, but I’m so glad I didn’t know that until it was upon me; that in my innocence and blush of first love, I was able to submerge my "good girl Catholicism" deep into my Delphic heart and learn the joy of "feeling dirty" with this boy so eager to teach me.

What amazes me is that these numbered of years later — internet-enlightened and supposedly sexually wiser than the "free love" generation — so many of us walk one way and talk another when it comes to kinky, fetish-y, dirty-ish S E X.  I know you’re doing it!  I know you’re doing a helluva lot of it!  I specialized in Kinky Phone Sex, Fetish Phone Sex and FemDom Phone Sex.  So don’t you go forgetting that.  Not even for one minute.  I’ve got your number!

Well, er, you’ve got MY number.  Semantics.  Let’s move on.

But really — and I do mean REALLY — think about the porn you access, think about what YOU think about when you masturbate.  I certainly don’t masturbate to vanilla scenarios. NOT EVER.  And I’m pretty sure you don’t either.  Come on … fess up.  You can tell me all about it.  Or maybe you conveniently don’t remember/think about the particular bent piece of brain  candy you were chewing away at the last time it was hands-on solo?

I say "conveniently" because I used to do that.  Guilty as charged!  I’d have this horrifically perverse psycho-drama playing in my head as I, as the boys say, "rubbed one out."  I would get hot and itchy and crazy-lustful.  Which transferred into a seriously out-of-this-world breath-taking orgasm. YUMM-FUCKING-Y!  Then I’d think to myself, you’re a bad girl.  Shame on you. There is something wrong with you.  You are disgusting.  And so I’d promptly and ever-so-efficiently forget it, erase it, deny it.  Gone, gone, gone.

And wouldn’t you know it?  There it would be, right back where it belonged: that bright & shiny Halo right there atop my good little Catholic school girl head.  A little crooked, perhaps, but none the worse for the wear.  Now that all that "naughtiness" was for all intents & purposes erased, I could go about the business of being conventionally normal.  Just like everybody else.  Which is quite the trick isn’t it?

The slippery part of this business is that — when our halos are back in place — we’ve really do forget.  It’s an intermittent amnesia of sorts (because you can bet we’ll revisit those vile scenarios and nasty thoughts sooner rather than later … and often) which affords us quite the lofty spot from which to express our shock, our disgust at "those other people" with the "weird fetishes" and "forbidden desires" and "perverse kinks."

Which is just silliness. Because one man’s Panty Fetish is another man’s BDSM is another man’s Body Worship is another man’s CFNM is another man’s Strap-On Training is another man’s Public Masturbation, is another man’s CBT is another man’s Forced-Bi is another man’s Castration is another man’s Puppy Training is another man’s Cuckolding is another man’s Tease & Denial is another man’s …

You get my point?  Don’t you?

This doesn’t mean we’re running around every day salivating and humping and chomping our fetish fangs all over the place.  I mean that wouldn’t look very nice at church now, would it?  Plus it would make for a lot of dry cleaning.  In my REAL LIFE I  have tender and romantic sex, with the occasional wild and crazy encounter.  And if you want to know more about that … well, you’re going to have to at least buy me dinner. 

But I am quite serious when I iterate that all of us have THE RIGHT to Feel Dirty.  It’s just one part of our multi-faceted sexual selves.  If we deny this part of us, harness our super powers (prayer, hobbies, nightly bouts of self-flagellation) and Just Say No to the Kryptonite (get out of my head, lewd thoughts and craven images), we’re really just perpetuating out-dated psycho-sexual mythology and carnal misconceptions.  And then inflicting this erroneous crap on ourselves and others. 

As a wise woman once told me:  Thou shalt not should on thyself.  I thought it was good advice at the time and I’ve always kept it handy for the occasional crisis of conscience. I would just hope we remember to not should on others, either.  

How about this for a bumper sticker: Eradicate Sexual Obscurantism! 

xo, Angela