Biff is back and you're not going to believe what she's up to now!  In what I believe is the funniest Razor-Wire installment yet, our erstwhile damsel has decided to bring in some extra cash by starting a secondary career in Phone Sex.  Ouch! 

A warm thanks to my generous and brilliant friend, Pervert Savant, who writes so deliciously well and with such humor.

Previously:   Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3, Chapter 4 

Lingerie on the Razor Wire

by Pervert Savant

The Chilling Story of a Young Transsexual’s Search for Love Amid the Mindless Brutality, Recidivist Squalor, and Unrelentingly Tasteless Tattoos of the Most Corrupt Prison  in Texas! 

Chapter V:  Premium Phone-Sex from the Princess Mistress 

Prison Guard Mary “Biff” McGurk took a long swallow from her bottle of Tecate and glumly eyed the list of telephone numbers illuminated in a line on her computer’s messaging screen. 

Shit!” Biff muttered morosely.  “Looks like another slow night!” 

Eager to supplement her meager income as a functionary at West Texas Correctional, Biff had recently taken on a second job as a Phone Sex Worker. Her decision had been prompted by a colorful Internet ad promising easy money, the ability to work from home, and a chance to be one’s own boss.  Entranced by the prospects, Biff had signed an e-mail contract that promised an ability to start work immediately. However, despite high initial expectations, Biff’s financial returns from her new telephonic métier had, to date, proven somewhat disappointing. 

Biff’s pudgy fingers poked clumsily at her computer’s keyboard.  After a moment, a screen flashed, instantly revealing the litany of assumed names that constituted her recent phone clientele. 

BibOverallFetish called you at 6:15 PM on 11/17/07 (YOU HAVE BLOCKED THIS CALLER)

SonicLunch called you at 8:02 PM on 11/17/07 (YOU HAVE BLOCKED THIS CALLER)

SasquatchAss called you at 9:23 PM on 11/17/07 (YOU HAVE BLOCKED THIS CALLER)

LemueltheMoonPie called you at 9:47 PM on 11/17/07 (YOU HAVE BLOCKED THIS CALLER)

Fartlover called you at 10:36 PM on 11/17/07 (YOU HAVE BLOCKED THIS CALLER)

BibOverallFetish called you at 11:07 PM on 11/17/07 (YOU HAVE BLOCKED THIS CALLER)

BibOverallFetish called you at 11:10 PM (YOU HAVE BLOCKED THIS CALLER) 

Biff scrutinized her call list dismissively.  “Usual bunch of dipshits wanting refunds,” she mused knowingly while reaching for an unfiltered Camel.  “Well, fuck ‘em!  I don’t give refunds!” 

Biff took a deep drag from her cigarette and moved her cursor to her website’s “Customer Feedback” area.

  DATE        CALLER            RATING          COMMENT

Mildly irritated, Biff punched some more keys and moved to her New Caller List to see: 

PantyFemme called you at 12:07 AM on 11/19/07 (CUSTOMER WANTS A CALL-BACK!) 

“Hey!” Biff chortled.  “I got me a new one!”

Biff took another sip from her beer and flipped open the index page of her “Sweet Texas Honey New Operator’s Manual” searching eagerly for its entry for “Panty Fetishists.” 

“Sweet Texas Honey” was the name of the phone sex service Biff had recently joined.  Its website featured pictures of approximately 15 negligee-clad women, all with names like “The Duchess Lacey,” “Little Empress Puddin- Pie,” and “Queen-Bee Brittany,” each one purporting to have some sort of taboo sexual specialty. 

The site’s owner–a husky-voiced, 57-year old woman named Maisie O’Toole–had determined that her courtesans all had to be Princesses, Duchesses, or Queens–in addition to being “barely legal”, being “an experienced life-style mistress” and being possessed of “no taboos”.  These qualities were a guaranteed way – to Maisie’s way of thinking—of  attracting new callers. 

Of course, Biff had a picture posted at Sweet Texas Honey too.  And of course, it wasn’t really her own photo.  Biff’s ad featured a photograph of a svelte 19-year old brunette in a black leather corset bearing the nom-de-plume: “Her Exalted Highness Princess Mistress Biffie”. The photo had cost Biff $50.00 and had been purchased from a website catering to would-be PSOs. 

Despite her ersatz picture, Biff had chosen her business name herself – a small accommodation that Maisie permitted her girls, so long as the selected name fell within the broad parameters of Maisie’s tested keys to telephonic success. Under her elected sobriquet Biff had opted to insert her designated area of expertise — “Whiplash Cash Vixen and No-Limits Life-Style Mistress!” 

As an added come-on, Biff’s site featured–like those of the other geishas who toiled for Maisie –a brief statement detailing her personal likes and dislikes.  Biff had painstakingly written her statement after carefully reviewing those posted on the web pages of her erstwhile rivals.  After giving the matter some thought, Biff had penned the following come-on to her hoped-for future customers: 

GOT A FAVORITE FANTASY YA’D LIKE TO PLAY OUT?  WELL, HOW’D YOU LIKE SUM FIRE ANTS UP YER BUTT, DOGBOY?  HA! HA! OR HOW’S ABOUT ME JUST LAFFIN AT THAT FUNNY LITTLE BITTY PECKER YA GOT THERE?  HA! HA! WELL, I CAN BE SENSUAL TOO — LIKE I WAS YER SPECIAL GIRL FRIEND OR SOMETHING.  HEY! HOW ABOUT I DRESS YOU UP LIKE YOU WAS LITTLE BO-PEEP AND THEN I DO YA WITH AN OLD CORNCOB?  HA! HA! PRETTY FUNNY!!  I DON’T CARE. THAT’S OK WITH ME TOO. OR HOW BOUT I HOGTIE YOUR ASS AND TREAT YOU LIKE YOU WAS A HEIFER?  MOOOO!  MOOO!  I GOT MY BRANDIN’ IRON ALL REDDY HA! HA!  PRETTY FUNNY, HUH? SO CALL ME UP AND HAVE YOUR TOYS AND GERBILS AND OTHER STUFF ALL REDDY CUZ I LIKE ALL THAT TOO!  NO TABOOS!  I’M A LIFE-STYLE MISTRESS! BARELY LEGAL! YOU’D BE SMART TO CALL ME UP RIGHT NOW, PISSANT!  DON’T KEEP HER EXALTED HIGHNESS PRINCESS MISTRESS BIFFIE WAITING!!!!! AND REMEMBER!  NO REFUNDS!!!!  AND NO WEBCAMS EITHER !! AND I DON’T SELL PANTIES SO DON’T EVEN ASK!!! CALL ME NOW, WORM!!!  AND BEFORE YOU CALL, READ THE RULES!!! 

Thus prepared, Biff then began her work as an odalisque for “Sweet Texas Honey.”  After a spate of initial interest, her calls, inexplicably, had begun tailing off.  Thus, the fact that a “New Caller” was now awaiting her long-delayed call-back served to rekindle some of Biff’s original enthusiasm. 

After cursorily perusing the Manual’s recommendations for the treatment of panty fetishists, Biff opened a bag of barbecued Fritos and a fresh bottle of Tecate and steeled herself for the upcoming task.  Pensively concentrating on Maisie’s suggestions, Biff dialed the number and, after a moment’s pause, was connected to her caller: 

“Hello?” the unknown caller drawled. 

Is this Panty Ass? Er…wait a minute…I mean, Panty Femme?” Biff intoned sweetly. 

“Er…Yeah.  It’s me.  Is this Sweet Texas Honey?” 

“It shore as hell is!”  Biff responded, trying to establish the quick rapport that Maisie had stressed was so important with new callers. 

“Well, howdy-do there, cupcake!  My real name’s, well, it’s Lester.” 

“Well this here’s Her Exalted Highness Princess Mistress Biffie.  Y’all lookin’ fer some fun, huh?”  Biff took a swig from her new Tecate and rummaged in her bag for a Frito. 

"You betcha, sweetcheeks!” the caller responded.  “I got me this little thing fer panties.  Do you specialize in panty-type calls?” 

“Shit yes I do,” Biff lied, languidly chewing her Frito.  “I’ll bet yew’d like to know what kinda panties I’m wearing right now, wouldn’t ya?  Well, sir I’ll tell ya.  They’re these brand new cotton ones I got in my favorite color – lime green.  I also got me a pair with all these leopardy dots on ‘em that I like too.  ‘Course they’re in the wash right now.  I usually wear them panties for my special occasions.  Most of the time though I wear Fruit-of-the-Loom boxer shorts.  Pretty sexy, those Fruit-of-the-Looms—all loose like.  I like ‘em cuz they sorta let the air in and keep everything all cool.  I like the name too. Fruit-of-the-Loom.  Fruit-of-the-Loom’s got a real nice ring to it.  Kinda wholesome.  Y’know, I’m a life-style mistress and I have my stable of subbies hand wash my Fruit-of-the-Looms.  Pretty sexy, huh?" 

“Well, that’s nice.  But what I was thinkin’ about was a pair of them sexy little thongs.  You know, the sorta satiny kind and in a real hot color…you know…like Fire-Engine Red.” 

“Well goddamit, you little dipshit…why didn’t you say so….Hey, now that I’m lookin’ at ‘em, why that’s exactly what I got on now.  Fire-Engine Red thongs.  I usually wear Fire Engine Red thongs under my regular clothes when I’m working on my job.  They’re real slick. Ya sit down wearing those things and ya feel like yer gonna slide right off a chair.  One thing about them though, you gotta be careful with ‘em after you take a shit.  Skid marks.  It’s tough to get skid marks offa satin. But yeah, that’s what I got on now.  Pretty too. Wish you could see ‘em on me.  But you can’t, I guess.  Cuz yore there and I’m here."

Biff paused to take another swallow of beer, listening for “feedback” from the caller.  “Feedback” was important.  Maisie had mentioned that in the Manual. 

“Well, look cupcake.  I was kinda wonderin’ how’d it be if I put on a pair of them thongs with you there…you know…sorta guidin’ me…tellin’ me how hot it makes you and all…y’know?” 

Biff burped and reached for another Frito. 

‘Oh, yeah, that’d make me hot all right – real hot.  Catchin’ you wearing my thong thingies.  Why, if I caught you in ‘em, I’d prolly get my whip and beat yore stupid ass real good.  Shit.  You’d look like such a dumb ass wearin’ my thongs.

What are you anyway?   Some kinda pervert?  Jeez-o-pete, I’d probly have you arrested and haul yore ass down to the police station.  What’s yore name again?  Lester?  Well, Lester, you strike me as one sick perp. I’d haul yore ass down to the station and turn ya over to the proper law enforcement authorities.  That’s my reaction.  I’d be hot all right. I’d press charges!  That answer yore question? 

“No wait.  See, sugar, you don’t understand…What I meant was, you just get me in them panties and…” 

“Hey, Lester…Listen here. Somethin’ tells me we ain’t getting’ off on the right foot.  Look, I know what you like.  I’m an experienced life-style mistress, ain’t I?  Just like my ad says.  And I orter know what’s best fer you, shouldn’t I?  I mean, who’s the goddam expert here? So you just hush-up a minute and let me describe myself ta ya.  See, I’m barely legal.  Eighteen is the legal age and I’m nineteen.  My measurements are 38-24-36.  That get you all hot?  And don’t call me ‘sugar’!  Call me by my name – Her Exalted Highness Princess Mistress Biffie.  Do I make myself clear?

“Er, yes Her Exalted Highness Princess Mistress Biffie.  Um…but what I was trying to say was that I….” 

“Look, toad-brain.  One thing you should keep in mind is that the Princess Mistress doesn’t like to be interrupted.  You been interrruptin’ me right and left.  Do you know who it is yore talkin’ to? 

“Well, I was just tryin’ to say…” 

“I don’t give two shits about what you were tryin’ ta say, you little turdlet.  I know what you like.  You oughta be arrested for it too….Wait a minute.  I’ll deal with you in a minute.  Right now I gotta go take a leak…And you better be here when I come back.” 

“But, Princess Mistress Biffie!  This call is costing me $14.95 a minute!  Couldn’t you just tell me how pretty I’d look in that red thong…you know…and sorta touch ‘em after I got into ‘em and all? Real quick like. And then…” 

“Look, bozo, who’s the Princess Mistress here?  You or me? 

“Well, you are, of course, Princess Mistress, but…" 

“That’s right.  How’d you like it if I put a little horney toad in them panties down there with your little Fredrick?  Them toads got spines.  That could cause you problems…” 

“No…I wouldn’t want that…But I was thinkin’ of somethin’ more….well…My fantasy’s more sensual.” 

“Ha!  You want me ta rub yore dick through yore panties and tell ya yer all pretty, heh?” 

“Well, yes…I mean…something like that…” 

“Fat chance of that happening, dog-boy.  But I will do a fantasy session where I turn you into my little girl.  How’s that sound?  And I’m gonna name you Trollop.  I kinda like that name.  But first I have ta hypnotize you. 

Relax….Relax…Listen to my voice.  Start counting backwards backwards.  Slowly from 500.  Come on now:  499, 498….  You’re getting sleepy.  Did I tell you that I’m also a trained hypnotherapist?   Well I am! 497…count!  I can’t hear you counting.  Are you counting?  I can’t do no fantasy without cooperation!  Get to it!  I can’t hear you! 

“496…..” 

“That’s better.  Now, when you get down ta zero you will be fast asleep and in my power…Keep counting!” 

“495…Er…but Princess Mistress… that’s going to cost me a fortune!” 

“Keep counting!  You are growing more and more feminine as you count.  495…  More and more in Her Exalted Princess Mistress’ power.  Now keep counting, and when I come back here I want to hear you still counting…slowly…backward.  Count!” 

“Please, Princess Mistress…can’t we start at 50?  Princess?  Are you still there?  I can’t hear you.  OK…OK…494…493…getting sleepy…492…” 

“That guy’s voice sure sounds familiar,” Biff mused as she idly washed her hands after relieving herself.  “I could swear I’ve heard it before.  Fuck, I been talkin’ to so many of these perverts lately I can hardly wipe my ass right anymore.” 

Returning to the phone, Biff heard the caller continuing his countdown to erotic nirvana. 

“367…366…365…er….27…26…25…” 

“Goddamit!  Yore cheatin’ you little asswipe,” Biff resumed, immediately taking charge.  Maisie’s Manual stressed the importance of taking charge of submissives. 

“Er no…look…I can’t be countin’ that long.  My credit card’s gonna be maxed out!” 

“Okay…okay!  Look, while I was away I got me this strap-on.  You know what that’s for, right?  Bend over you little sissy.  OK, now hold still ‘cause I’m a-comin’ right in there!” 

“Wait a minute…I mean…can’t you be a little more sensual?” 

“You want sensual?  Hmm.  OK, take yer fingers and start a-pinchin’ yer titties!  Ain’t that sweet?  Ya got ‘em all hard fer me?  OK, now hold still cause I’m a-comin’ right in there!” 

“Look, sweetie, this ain’t workin’ for me; I’m sorry.  Ain’t all yer fault, I guess.  OK, I gotta hang up.  This goddam call’s gonna cost me a fortune.” 

“All right then, hang up.  But remember ta leave me 5 stars, OK?  And a tribute.  Mistress Biffie loves tributes!  Hell, maybe next time I’ll give ya a free minute.  OK?” 

***CLICK*** 

“WE HOPED YOU ENJOYED YOUR CALL WITH SWEET TEXAS HONEY.  TELL A FRIEND ABOUT US.  YOU CAN GET $50.00 OFF YOUR NEXT CALL!”

Finally, what everybody’s been asking for: More about the gang of the Razor-wire, courtesy of our esteemed Pervert Savant. Biff takes front and center this time. It’s her day off and we join her as she is preparing to paint the town Diesel Dyke red.

Catch Up: Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3

Lingerie on the Razor-Wire

by Pervert Savant

A Heartrending but Sadly True Account of a Young Transsexual’s Struggles within the Mesquite-Scented Den of Homoerotic Iniquity that Today Passes for the Texas Penal System.

Chapter IV: Cocktails with Lupita

Head Prison Guard Mary "Biff" McGurk smiled broadly at the face in her bathroom mirror. Biff had just finished liberally slathering that face with a double-dollop of her favorite scent — Mennen’s Skin Bracer. The resulting manly aroma on her beefy jowls complimented the bolo tie, plaid cowboy shirt, and rodeo boots that were Biff”s regular "go-into-town" garb. Yes, it was Saturday night — Biff’s night off from the prison.

"Yeah baby!" Biff yelped approvingly to her reflected visage. "Biffy’s gonna have a hot one tonight. Hormiga better look out, "cause this is one babe that’s gonna have some F-U-N!"

Hormiga, Texas — Biff’s intended destination on this particular Saturday evening — was a prairie oasis located approximately five miles from West Texas Correctional. It featured a small gas station, a tiny grocery, a smattering of rundown mobile homes, and "Rosa’s" — an erstwhile feed store that one Dagoberto "Rosa" Gutierrez had converted into an air-conditioned cantina and gay bar — the only one extant within the arid geographic confines of Suggs County, Texas. In addition to the gay bar — which was aptly called "Rosa’s“ — Rosa also owned the gas station, the grocery, and most of the mobile homes that littered Hormiga. Not surprisingly, Rosa was also Hormiga’s mayor and the top drag entertainer in her converted establishment.

Biff adjusted the turquoise-encrusted slide on her bolo tie and made sure that the unfiltered Camel cigarette she had placed over her protruding left ear was at its customary jaunty angle. Then she carefully fingered her Stetson, making sure its crown was perched on her pate just the way she liked it.

"Your lookin’ good, honey," Biff intoned to her image. "them lezzies at Rosa’s are gonna be losin’ their money when you start knockin’ them pool balls around tonight!"

Satisfied that she was ready, Biff seized the snakeskin carrying case that contained her cue stick and sauntered out, in her customary fashion, to her lime-green Volkswagen Beetle loudly singing the lyrics to Tennessee Ernie Fordâ’s "Sixteen Tons" into the warm night air.

"I got one arm o’ iron, the other o’ steel. If the right don’tt get ya, then the left one weeeeel."

Biff grinned happily to herself. And why shouldn’t she be happy? After all, wasn’t she Warden W. Lester McCobb’s Top Prison Guard? His "Numero Uno" as Biff liked to refer to herself. The Real Thing. The Big Kahuna. Wasn’t she the only prison guard at West Texas Correctional possessed of an Associates Degree in Modern Criminology? Wasn’t she the one that W. Lester McCobb relied on to keep the prison’s fiercest cons in line? Yes, Biff had a right to be happy. She was the envy of her peers, an American success story.

Biff slid her meaty haunches onto the driver’s seat of her VW and grunted approvingly when the vehicle’s engine answered to the turn of her key. She then expertly slipped the transmission out of neutral and into reverse, spun the tires raucously, and –“ after punching the radios buttons to her favorite Del Rio C & W station — set out once again on a familiar, tune-filled trek to Hormiga.

On arrival, Biff swung into her customary parking spot at the gas station across the street from Rosa’s. Emerging from the car, Biff could see that the weekend festivities at Rosa’s were already well-underway. Lupita LaLinda, a diminutive midget drag queen, was in the process of leading a conga-line of Rosa’s regulars out from the bar’s well-lighted entrance. The line was snaking around "Old Buck" — a large plaster statute of a Longhorn steer that Rosa had seen fit to festoon with Christmas tree lights. Old Buck was an advertising relic of the cantina’s glory days as a feed store and Rosa — always the opportunist — had artistically placed red and green lights on the noble bovine’s motionless form so as to spell out, in flashing letters, the name of her watering hole.

Biff snorted amiably as Lupita and the coterie of regulars circled the statue of the steer. "Dumb asses," Biff chuckled. "Hell, it’s only eight o’clock and Lupie’s already four sheets to the wind."

Biff’s appraisal of Lupita’s condition was not far off the mark. The tiny queen was attired in her Saturday night best — a minute cobalt blue, off the shoulder, sequined ensemble that Lupita had daringly accessorized with a peewee-sized feather boa and a matching set of platform heels — on which she was now pivoting none too steadily. The little Mexicanâ’s tiny mitts additionally clutched her customary beverage–a Mason-jar sized martini. Lupita was taking impressive swigs from the jar as she simultaneously steered her festive conga around Old Buck’s impassive backside. Inebriation was in the air. It was Saturday night in Hormiga.

Ignoring the tail of Lupita’s conga, and pool cue firmly in hand, Biff confidently strode into Rosa’s. And it was Rosa herself, from her customary position behind the bar, that was the first to greet Biff on her arrival.

"Hey! Lookie hoose heer! Eets Chon Wayne!" Rosa chortled loudly to no one in particular. "Yoo lookin’ reel good tonight keed-o! I kood smell that after-shave loshun yoo wear from feefty yards!"

Ignoring Rosa’s good-natured taunt, Biff swiveled her 230-pound frame onto a stool in front of the bar and growled: "Gimme a Tecate, you old pervert!"

"Hey, Chon Wayne he always dreenk weeksie. Wassa matta Sheriff, yoo seek or sometheeng?" Rosa responded.

Not waiting for a rejoinder from Biff, Rosa plunged her hand into a cooler and emerged with Biff’s requested quaff. Rosa was in her customary attire — a wide-skirted Mexican wedding dress, a jet-black wig that featured a large silver comb, and her ersatz coiffure crowned with a sweeping black-lace mantilla. Rosa was proud of her Mexican heritage and her get-up befitted her matronly station as the bar’s proprietor and Hormiga’s pre-eminent senior citizen.

Rosa handed Biff her beer and tried to maintain her banter over the noise of the drag-show that was underway on a small spotlighted stage to Biff’s rear. Biff decisively declined Rosa’s offer of a glass and took a pretentious swig of the beer from the tendered bottle. Rosa clucked disapprovingly:

"You donâ know who mighta be peesing on that beer fore yoo dreenk it, Sheriff. Yoo shood use a glass."

Rosa eyed the snake skin carrying case that Biff had placed on the bar and quickly put two and two together.

"Looks like yoo gonna play some pool tonight, eh honey?"

"You betcha, Rosa," Biff grinned, taking another defiant slurp from the beer. "An’ after I get through taking all those lezzies in your pool room for their paychecks, I’m gonna take some o’™ their tail too!"

"Well, buena suerte weeth that, Sheriff," Rosa sniffed skeptically.  "Yoo been comin’ een heer for tree years now an’ yoo ain’t peek up nada that I see."

Biff let Rosa’s rebuke to her social skills pass, opting instead to swivel around on her barstool to watch the show. The cantina’s featured entertainers, a motley group of Mexican queens known as "The Fabulous Cucarachas," had been attempting to lip-sync their way through an old Supremes’ number. The Cucarachas’ choreography, however, was being thrown into disarray by some of their admirers in the audience, who were tempting them with outstretched hands holding dollar bills. Seizing the moment, the prancing Cucarachas — one by one — had abandoned the stage and were now churning through the audience hell-bent on grabbing the proffered money. All the while, a grainy recording of "My Baby Love" continued to play –“ now somewhat pointlessly — in the background.

"Damn!" Biff muttered, eyeing the entertainers. "They look like a buncha zoo lizards in a feeding frenzy."

Bothered by Rosa’s observations about possible urination, Biff took a more-tentative swig of her Tecate. Detecting no untoward flavors, she then reached for her pool cue, and warily eyed the side alcove where Rosa kept her pool tables. Biff’s decision to adjourn to Rosa’s pool room, however, was abruptly interrupted, when Curtis McLurvey, a local gay rancher and an erstwhile member of Lupita’s conga-line, re-entered the bar suddenly and in an obviously agitated state.

"Rosa, you’d best come outside real quick-like. There’s sumpthin’ wrong with Lupita!"

Rosa immediately left her station behind the bar, adjusted her mantilla, and then followed McLurvey out into the street. Biff ambled along as well, together with the trio of Cucarachas and most of the bar’s other patrons. There, prone on the pavement outside and silhouetted in the blinking lights cast by the electrified statue of Old Buck, lay Lupita — rolling to and fro amid the shards of her broken Mason jar and moult from the tattered remains of her feather boa.

"What the hell’s wrong with her?" Biff queried, as the denizens of the cantina surrounded the midget queen on the pavement.

"I dunno, Biff," Curtis McLurvey responded. "She was havin’ a good ole time an’ all of a sudden-like she just started rollin’ aroun’ on the ground. Ya think she’s one o’ them eperleptics? Maybe she’s chokin’ on her tongue!"

"Could be," Biff propounded sagely. "That’d explain all that rollin’ around. It’s a damned sight sure she ain’t doin’ it cause she’s religious."  Biff took the opportunity to take a thoughtful swig from her beer, which she had presciently brought with her from the bar.

"I know one thing," Biff added. "If she’s havin’ herself an eperleptic fit, I wouldn’t go stickin’ none of my fingers in her mouth rootin’ aroun’ for her tongue. You do that an’ she’ll bite one o’ yer fingers off, sure as shit."

The concerned crowd continued to watch Lupita writhe about in the mammoth shadow of Old Buck. Her painted face now resembled the color of her dress and her spiked heels were kicking about in potentially lethal arcs, causing the onlookers to step away in the interest of safety.

"Shit, she’s kicking around like a dyin’ click-beetle," Biff observed to Curtis. "But I wouldn’t worry none. If she’s just havin’ herself an eperleptic fit, it orter die down soon. Them things don’t last long. She’ll prolly be all right in a little bit."  To reinforce her prognosis, Biff took the opportunity to light up a Camel.

"Well, she don”t look so good right now to me, Biff," Curtis noted.  "She’s turnin’ kinda blue-like. Mebbe it’s somethin’ else."

Biff took another swig of Tecate. "Hell, what do you know, Curtis. You deliver a couple of heifers on your farm and now you think you’re a doctor. I say it’s eperlepsy, just like you first thought."

While Biff and Curtis continued their medical speculations, Lupita’s frenetic spasms continued apace. The pint-sized drag queen’s convulsions had caused her to roll under the immobile torso of Old Buck, leaving a train of detached aquamarine sequins in her wake. The sequins shimmered eerily in the winkling red and green lights adorning the steer that intermittently flashed out "ROSA’S.".

“You blockheads! Can’t you see that she’s choking to death!" someone in the crowd shouted authoritatively.

Biff, disconcerted and wondering who the blockheads were that the voice mentioned, spun her head around in the night, looking for a glimpse of them.

Biff quickly discovered that the observation had come from none other than Cherie D’Amour, West Texas Correctional’s Prison Nurse, who had pushed her way through a gaggle of concerned Cucarachas and was now attempting to find a way to approach Lupita without being impaled on the midget’s slashing stilettos. The crowd parted accommodatingly as Cherie — in stilettos herself — eyed Lupita’s frenzied spasms, trying to time them in order to optimize her approach. Unfortunately, Lupita was in no mood to cooperate.

"This is all I need," Cherie groaned. "My one night off from the infirmary and I wind up having to give first aid to a dwarf version of Gloria Estefan."

"Yoo go goorl!" one of the Cucarachas agreed sympathetically.

Exasperated, Cherie took a last drag from her Virginia Slim and then threw the cigarette aside on the pavement.

"Desperate problems require desperate measures!" Cherie muttered.  If I wind up breaking a nail on this, Lupita’s going to be paying my technician for a whole new set!"

Grabbing Lupita’s feather boa — which was providentially still wrapped around the midget’s tiny neck — Cherie managed to pull the impersonator out from under Old Buck’s stationary underbelly. Then, ducking another kicking spasm from Lupita, Cherie extended a nyloned leg of her own and, with the tip of her shoe, carefully toed Lupita over onto her stomach. As Lupita’s kicks subsided, Cherie seized the gasping midget around her cinched in waist, pulled her to her feet, and began pushing her ample breasts against Lupita’s back — something that brought Biff to a state of rapt attention.

Unfortunately Cheri’s midget-appropriate Heimlich maneuver had no immediate effect on the choking Lupita. Seeing this, Cherie abandoned it in favor of an alternate methodology — pounding on Lupita’s back with the open palm of her splayed hand. Cherie then reverted to another Heimlich — this time with more telling results. Lupita, eyes bulging, and still gagging, suddenly ejected a large green cocktail olive from the inner depths of her lipsticked gullet.

The Cucarachas, watching the arc of the olive’s trajectory, gasped in unison. It looked to all like a sinister and ominous green eyeball as it eerily landed and rolled for a time along the concrete pavement.

The source of her malady thus exorcized, Lupita responded with a brief spasm of markedly unfashionable vomiting. This too seemed to aid the healing process. While Lupita still looked none to well, the previously bluish tint to her complexion visibly returned to its normal matte finish. Relieved and cooing words of encouragement, Rosa and one of the Cucarachas obligingly assisted the petite entertainer back into the cantina. Most of bar’s other s patrons followed suit.

For his part, Curtis McLurvey retrieved Cherie’s purse — an expensive Gucci clutch that Warden McCobb had bought her after a seminar in Waco — and dutifully handed it to the young nurse. McLurvey too returned to the bar, pausing only to taunt Biff with a final "I tole ya it might not be eperlepsy" before doing so.

Cherie, now alone with Biff, swiftly removed her compact from her purse and began inspecting the damage that her exertions with Lupita had wrought to her makeup.

"That was nice work that ya did there with that midget, sweetcheeks,"  Biff observed.   "You got in there just before I was gonna take action. Y’know, I had a semester of First Aid at Amarillo State Junior College an’ I could see the situation was gettin’ serious."

Cherie, engrossed in refreshing her lipstick, tried her best to ignore the beefy lesbian. She managed this quite nicely until, suddenly and surprisingly she felt a distinctive tingling on the upper part of her chest. Looking down quizzically from her compact, she noted that two of Biff’s outstretched and unmanicured fingers had tightly locked around the tip of her left nipple.

"C’mon, baby," Biff intoned. "Let’s you an’ me have us a drink"

***

GET TO KNOW PERVERT SAVANT

 

Readers should know by now that I have a column at Sex Kitten. A great gang of girls are the center of attention over there, with the occasional male showing up for support and/or commentary and/or their own articles.

Although I’ll never measure up to Dorothy Parker or break bread with the likes of Alice Walker, I do like to write and Gracie is either kind enough or crazy enough–probably a little of both–to let do my thing, with very little intervention on her part…thank goodness. Structure, for me is a motherfucker, I don’t even usually make appointments for my nails or hair. I just drop in and expect them to work their magic. My saving grace, the reason they put up with my silliness, is my charming personality. And it might have something to do with the fact that I am an above average tipper. Just maybe.

Anyway, I wrote this piece, “When the Muse Wants to Fuck,” which had been very well received over at the Cat House. And I thought that was the end of it. But Kitten belongs to this blog club or something–I’ve never quite figured out how it works–called Sugasm. Seems that every week voters pick the best blog entries of the week. And my Muse piece was in the top three of issue 98! WOW! I wonder if I’ll get a cash prize. Or maybe a tiara and new car? Just kidding.

Actually, I’m stoked and I hope you take time to read it. It is one of my own personal favorites.

***

He’s baaaack! Pervert Savant, bless his pea-pickin’ heart, just sent me Chapter IV of Lingerie on the Razorwire, and it is unbelievably funny and downright brilliant. Why this guy isn’t writing for a living is beyond me. I also talked with PS today and he was his jolly and articulate self. I could listen to him for hours. He says he’ll be back soon. He is still having PC issues, but expects to have them corrected in the near future. He actually typed this chapter on his office PC. He charges by the hour. Wonder who he billed for that? Anyway, I’ll be publishing it in the next few days, so stay tuned.

***

A few questions (click the linkage if your answer is YES).

1. Do you absolutely fucking adore a woman who digs lingerie?
2. Does it take a smart woman to be a truly good Dominatrix?
3. Is cuckolding catching on as an acceptable kink?
4. Can good guys ever really finish first?
5. Did you know Shakespeare is still alive and slinging porn?
6. Can the human spirit thrive in prison?
7. Is it possible to be a good boy and one kinky motherfucker?
8. Does a girl who can talk sports turn you on?

***

Also, I am going to be featuring another story by Porno Person soon. He writes the dirtiest erotica, while I tend to save most of seriously nasty stuff for the kink-O-phone. So I like to put some of his beautifully filthy and seriously kinky fantasies here once in a while. It’s good to give this blog a good shaking up now and again. Dontcha think?

***

And to answer a question I get all the time: Yes, I know I link to people who don’t link to me. I don’t link for popularity or creating a “Google” presence; the linkage you find to the right of this blog is hand-picked by me for my readers. It is to benefit them, not me. People find me easily enough without me sacrificing my personal and professional integrity. So why screw with a good thing? Huh?

Okay, baby…I am history.

Until the next time.

xo, Angela

Happy Birthday, PervScan ~ May, 2007

And a trillion more. Or at least two or three. Maybe ten or twenty.
Butter Fingers
Ceiling “Fan”
Did (pussy) you catch (cock) all of that?
Extraterrestrial Sex Fetish
Fucking mannequins are such cock-teasing sluts!
Green Acres is the place to be…
He’s not just another pretty face, either!
I tried not to laugh, beloved Deviant Savant.
Just like Grandma used to make.
Kink is in the eye of the beholder.
Little Shop of Horrors
Mother knows best.
Necrophilia Variations
Oops! It was an honest mistake.
Penis Envy…serious penis envy
Queerly not so queer, maybe? (great piece)
Really cheap sex.
Sole-ful Fetish Boy
Tastes just like chicken.
Urine-Nation
Vanguard Aesthetics – Novel Pathologies
What would Jesus do?
XXX domains (very insightful)
You (she) can take it with you (her).
Zoftig Fetish

Spring is right around the corner. I swear it.

Kinda-sorta? Maybe? Could be?

I know most of you have been experiencing a rather mild winter (an AOL poll told me so) and may not be as desperate (as say me…for example) to see spring hurrying its little tulip-covered ass onto the gray and gloomy horizon. And I know for a fact that at least one of you –can you believe it, Zen readers?– is skiing even as I type this.

For others of us (say me…for example) it’s been seven rounds of snow in seven weeks with record low temps thrown in for good measure now and then. Just to keep things interesting, I guess.

As for myself: having ventured out into the big white world only sporadically and at the sweet mercy of blessed friends and discreetly reluctant relatives (Rear wheel drive convertible: Can we say TRADE IN?), I am most definitely looking forward to getting my Spring Freak On.

Bring it on, baby! Oh, baby, baby, baby! And I’m not the only one, I will have you know!

Spring Fever is sweeping the Net:

Consider Oh Luscious One who not only redecorated her usual hangout, but surprised us with a totally new crib, catering to sissies and panty-boys, The Pink Panty Cafe.

Then we have Supervert, snazzing up the veneer and window treatments over at PervScan. Seems a few of the regulars haven’t been adjusting well. Which shows just how much of an icon this official Zen Savant has become: His readers think they own him and should be in charge of his floor plans, flower arrangements and wall art.

And while we are speaking of Savants, Submissive Savant, Richard, being his always industrious and imaginative self has a new creation for this season’s runway, yet another upscale website/blogsite, FemDom Chastity. The name speaks for itself: you know if you should be getting your submissive little tush over there.

And if all of the above isn’t enough proof that spring is springing like a mofu, then just check this out, why dontcha? Pervert Q. Savant has submitted Lingerie on the Razor-Wire 4 (Keep your panties or boxers or chastity device on…I’ll be publishing it soon…and you can read the first three parts here). And that’s not all we’re hearing from Pervert Q. Seems he was so inspired by my Parochial Potpourri that he wrote the following:

Public School Girls and Catholic School Girls – A Sort of Poem

Funny thing.
When I was a Catholic boy I was afraid to even say anything
To the Catholic schoolgirls
That sat on the other side
of our divided classrooms.

I thought they all bought into the venial sins and mortal sins
That the nuns told us about.
I thought they were kind of pure,
Free from the “bad thoughts” that I harbored
About what was beneath their white blouses
And plaid skirts.

I figured they weren’t like me
– someone who didn’t have money
For summer camp,
For skating,
And who didn’t know how to dance.

Someone that didn’t know what to say to them.

The public school girls were the ones that seemed more like me
– that wore makeup,
That didn’t wear uniforms.
That smoked in the back of the city bus
That took me to a typing class at the local public high school. They were the “bad girls” the nuns warned us about.

And being Catholic, I didn’t know what to say to them either.

So bring on the sun, the meltdown, the sunglasses, the god-blessed air conditioning.

Let’s get our Spring Freak On!

xo, Angela