To NORA

JIM

****

Who knew that Mr. Joyce was such a randy, dirty scamp?  And why didn’t my Lit. Prof (damn Jesuit Catholic wench) assign this collection of letters (yes, I have more … stay tuned)  instead of Dubliners and A Portrait of a Young Man as Artist … both of which put me to sleep more than once.  Or instead of Ulysses, which made absolutely no sense to me or my fellow classmates no matter how many times we were told it was "great literature."  If I were feeling better, I’d do some surfing to revisit all that stuff and perhaps revise my critical opinion.  Since I’m not feeling so hot (I have a cold … boo hoo, poor me), maybe Pervert Savant or Vanilla Savant will call and give me the lowdown in the next couple of days.

You can read more about Joyce at Wikipedia and then check out the very pretty James Joyce Centre.

OMG!  He was bonking the chambermaid.  And her last name was Barnacle. Which explain why he didn’t write odes and sonnets to her.  What rhymes with "barnacle," after all?

xo, Angela

PS:  as you might have gathered — because I feel like crap and also do not want to be hacking into your ear right at the critical point *wink, wink* — no worky-worky for me.  And unless you call Isabella, The Luscious One or Abby Licks or Mistress Rayne … no phone sex for you.  If you do call any of my phone sex buddies, take it from me:  you will have an absolutely-tutely divine experience.  If you don’t make the call and need a bit of visual stimuli, then here’s a bunch of dirty pictures.

Special Thanks and 128 kisses (no more, no less) to Sweat Shop Sissy, who seems to always have my back … and certainly my deepest affection.

i watch your mouth
pure-boy rubicund
sweet-boy sugared
not kissed enough, not nearly enough
to my way of thinking
not nearly fucking enough

your lips
let me eat them
gnaw on them
spit on them
then lick it back off
then swallow it
our spit, our mouth-cum

suck on them
swallow them
bite them
fuck them with my cunt-mouth
rubicund too, rabid with need

then kiss them
kiss you
kiss me

with my real mouth
my girl mouth
my carnivore-mouth
my bitch-cannibal mouth
my slut-succubus mouth

kiss me

(a poem I wrote, hope you like it)

xo, Angela

• Well, I finally got around to moving my Savant Collection to a bigger and better curio cabinet (AKA their very own page here at Zen Fetish).
• When visiting, please do not pick up, handle or fondle the Savants. Remember: You break it, you buy it.
• As you browse this small (but most exclusive) collection, you might also notice that there are more Savants awaiting their debut: Vanilla Savant (there’s one in every crowd, don’t ya know?), Closeted Savant (he has secrets), Lady of the Lace Savant (the first female savant — yowza!), Horn Dawg Savant (this one is lotsa fun — just you wait) and Pussy-Whipped Savant (which really always is the case anyway — he just is a bit more aware of it).
• God Bless Luscious Lyndee: She’s now the proud owner of two Brian Rawson photographs.
• I’ve been getting a lot of poetry sent my way these days for some reason and I do thank the senders very much. One (a Shakespearian Sonnet) is below. And thanks to you-know-who.
• Oh, and did you see the response to A O Hell posted by a certain Savant who is pretty darn creative and down right hillarious? That, too, is below.
• Now that everything is tied up into a neat little bow, let me say goodbye for tonight. Kink-O-Phone is now officially off of the hook.

***

Sonnet 57 ~William Shakespeare

Being your slave, what should I do but tend
Upon the hours and times of your desire?
I have no precious time at all to spend,
Nor services to do, till you require.

Nor dare I chide the world-without-end hour
Whilst I, my sovereign, watch the clock for you,
Nor think the bitterness of absence sour
When you have bid your servant once adieu;

Nor dare I question with my jealous thought
Where you may be, or your affairs suppose,
But, like a sad slave, stay and think of nought
Save, where you are how happy you make those.

So true a fool is love that in your will,
Though you do any thing, he thinks no ill.

***

System/Prakrit Kamasutramurtri Says:

October 20th, 2006 at 8:50 pm

Dear Pearl:

Namaste!

It gladdens my heart, here in Mumbai, to learn that your AOL Email system has at last returned to its normal state of happy repair.

In your posting to ZenFetish, however, I sense smally that there remains of bitterness and dissatisfaction with AOL and with my own most sincere efforts to assist you with your unfortunate problem. Know well, that at all times, I strenuously expended myself to my utmost to relieve you of your most perplexing difficulty.

Sadly, Brahma was not amenable to the resolution of your misfortune on this occasion. Such is karma. I wished you to be cognizant that I am now burning incense and have offered sweets and flowers at the Temple of Kali in hopes of atonement.

Please take a moment to give me a good report when further communicating with my superiors.

Sincerely

Prakrit Kamasutramutri (”Jerry”)
Your AOL-Customer Service Representative in Mumbai

Hello?

It took you five rings to answer the telephone. Is that acceptable?

No, Mistress. I was getting the mail and forgot to take the extension phone with me. I’m sorry.

I am very busy running a real estate office here, Thomas. I don’t have time for your fuck-ups. Two Rings! The rules are clear.

Yes, Mistress.

Have you had your piss popsicle?

Yes, Mistress. Exactly at Noon, just like you said. Thank you.

And did you wear your pink sissy bloomers to the mail box?

Yes, Mistress. I think the paperboy saw me. It was very embarrassing.

And the ironing? Have you finished it yet?

I have two more of your blouses to do and that will be it, Mistress.

So the iron is still plugged in, correct?

Oh, Mistress, please, no.

Get the iron, Thomas. Now.

Yes, Mistress.

Are you ready, Thomas?

Yes, Mistress.

Pull your right testicle out of the right leg of your sissy bloomers.

Ohhhh…

Right now. Do it.

Yes, Mistress.

Now place the bottom of the iron on that testicle, Thomas. Hold it there while I count to three. Don’t dare take it off. And don’t you dare scream.

Yes, Mistress.

One. Two. Three. Are you crying, Thomas?

Yes, Mistress.

Good. Do you think you will answer the phone within two rings the next time I call?

Yes, Mistress. I have learned my lesson. You were right to punish me. I was very stupid and I am so sorry.

Go finish the ironing. And prepare dinner for two this evening. I will be bringing home a guest.

Yes, Mistress.

Ok, I will see you later then.

Mistress?

Yes, what is it?

I love you.

***Edit: Yes, I did write this. Originally for Blistered Lips, which you would find here if you are so inclined.

“Why?” I was asked by a certain someone who will remain nameless, but not linkless. Mostly because I love the art of fantasy in all it’s sickeningly sweet & perverse guises. And the scene in the story just wouldn’t happen at my place, ‘cuz I don’t even own an iron, nor would I ever cause such damage to any human being. But I do occasionally find it fun to think about. And, yes, I am the same girl who also wrote this. I can’t figure me out, but I’m sure having fun.

If

-Rudyard Kipling

If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too;
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or, being lied about, don’t deal in lies,
Or, being hated, don’t give way to hating,
And yet don’t look too good, nor talk too wise;

If you can dream - and not make dreams your master;
If you can think - and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with triumph and disaster
And treat those two imposters just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you’ve spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to broken,
And stoop and build ‘em up with wornout tools;

If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breath a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: “Hold on”;

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with kings - nor lose the common touch
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you;
If all men count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds’ worth of distance run -
Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it,
And - which is more - you’ll be a Man my son!

(Dearest Miss V: Because you are a magnificent spirit, a generous friend, a beauteous force, my treasured partner in crime and a beloved mentor to many. ~Angela)

..and a bit of poetry.

So I’m was checking out Sex Kitten, cuz something interesting is always going on there; take for instance, Whores & Horror: The Show, where Louise, Gracie, SlipofaGirl, Lyndee (she didn’t quite show up, but so what) and me are just stirring, licking and tickling up all kinds of naughtiness.

Where was I? Oh, yes.

Tess wrote a most astounding piece regarding women and body image which spoke to my heart, saying among other things:

Being 118 pounds may impress the Neanderthals in the clubs, but if it makes me fall down dead on the tennis court because my body has started to consume my heart muscle for nutrients or something, well uh, I think I couldn’t care less what impresses the rednecks.

Upon which I pondered:

Boy, what society/men/ourselves/media has done to women and body image. Sad…sad, indeed.

Then JerseyJake responded from his most magnicent and sensitive man-heart, saying among other things:

The thing I still love most about women is the magnificent variety. I’ve loved all kinds, all races at one time or - built thin, full-figured, athletic, dancers and even 1 little person. Each woman was beautiful and yes, sexy in my eyes. What made them desirable wasn’t their physique, but the way they carry themselves, their self-confidence…

And then he taught us. Goodness, how he taught us–with a poem by Gwendolyn Brooks (The first African American to win a Pulitzer Prize for poetry):

Look! I am beautiful, beautiful with
My wing that is wounded
My eye that is bonded
Or my ear not funded
Or my walk all a-wobble
I am enough to be beautiful.

You are
beautiful too.

(Read the commentary in its entirety here.)

Poolside

by Jeremy Edwards

The hotel’s elegant indoor pool area–deserted at this hour–was the perfect venue for the tryst we both craved. As we enjoyed the cool jazz that wafted in, we kissed, fondled, and undressed at leisure.

The last garment had hit the tiles. Gabrielle’s nipples and my penis were at maximum tension, and her pussy kissed my fingers with sweet juice. I began to lead her to a lounge chair, so that we could properly mingle.

“I have to pee first,” she said. I prepared to bide my time, thinking she would throw something on, excuse herself, and find a restroom. But she had other ideas. She glanced quickly around the pool lounge and spotted a file of fluffy towels. She grabbed a medium-size towel and, standing gloriously naked before me, she shoved it, still folded, into her crotch, where she held it tight with one hand and both thighs.

As I watched in amazement and delight, she kept her outer muscles tight and relaxed her inner ones. Within moments, she was pumping a powerful river of pee into the towel, humping it rhythmically all the while. Though she pissed a long time–an expression of sexual bliss creeping onto her face as she did so–the towel absorbed most of her flood. Only a few small, titillating trickles headed down her pulsating legs or dripped languidly to the floor beneath her damp, hot pussy.

Short and sweet and deliciously naughty. Dontcha think? You might recall that Jerotic visited Zen Fetish once before and I told you more about him the very next day. I mean, after all, inquiring minds wanted to know.

Something else about Jerotic? He’s a very sweet guy. I count him as a friend. And I count myself very lucky.

What’s a mind like Jerotic’s up to on a daily basis? Find out here. Tell him Angela sent you. He might just offer you some milk and cookies. Watch out for the lemonade, though.

someday
i will come for you
and we will go
away
those left behind
will talk about us
our callous hearts
our selfish desire

fugitives, we will fuck
our way free of them
while fucking them over
fucking convention
fucking expectation
fucking our hearts out

like they knew we would
like the said we would

fucking will be
our new religion
your cock will be my communion
my cunt will be your baptism

and we will be happy

like they knew we wouldn’t
like they said we wouldn’t

(Just a little poem I wrote.)

xo, Angela