Taking Off Emily Dickinson’s Clothes
by Billy Collins

First her tippet made of tulle,
easily lifted off her shoulders and laid
on the back of a wooden chair.

And her bonnet,
the bow undone with a light forward pull.

Then the long white dress, a more
complicated matter with mother-of-pearl
buttons down the back,
so tiny and numerous that it takes forever
before my hands can part the fabric,
like a swimmer’s dividing water,
and slip inside.

You will want to know
that she was standing
by an open window in an upstairs bedroom,
motionless, a little wide-eyed,
looking out at the orchard below,
the white dress puddled at her feet
on the wide-board, hardwood floor.

The complexity of women’s undergarments
in nineteenth-century America
is not to be waved off,
and I proceeded like a polar explorer
through clips, clasps, and moorings,
catches, straps, and whalebone stays,
sailing toward the iceberg of her nakedness.

Later, I wrote in a notebook
it was like riding a swan into the night,
but, of course, I cannot tell you everything -
the way she closed her eyes to the orchard,
how her hair tumbled free of its pins,
how there were sudden dashes
whenever we spoke.

What I can tell you is
it was terribly quiet in Amherst
that Sabbath afternoon,
nothing but a carriage passing the house,
a fly buzzing in a windowpane.

So I could plainly hear her inhale
when I undid the very top
hook-and-eye fastener of her corset

and I could hear her sigh when finally it was unloosed,
the way some readers sigh when they realize
that Hope has feathers,
that reason is a plank,
that life is a loaded gun
that looks right at you with a yellow eye

____________________________________________________

I’ve previously shared some of my favorite Billy Collins poetry with you (both HERE and HERE).  He’s just so damn good and he certainly knows his Emily well, I’m sure you’ll agree.

Or…

… perhaps this account is absolutely true, Mr. Collins having utilized his secretly endowed super power of time travel to journey back to the 1800s where he cornered Ms. Dickinson in some secluded nook of her family’s home and had his way with her.

Makes sense to me.

xo, Angela

We will open the book. Its pages are blank.
We are going to put words on them ourselves.
The book is called Opportunity and its first chapter is New Year’s Day.

~ Edith Lovejoy Pierce

Maybe it points to a developing maturity, but this is the first year I really “got” how important celebrating the end of one year and the beginning of another really is.  It’s never been about the partying for me (my first two years as a legal adult taught me the best place to be is home on New Year’s Eve), but I just never felt the deep connection to the past or awe for the future suddenly upon my doorstep.

Things are changing in my life, and Christmas this year — usually my favorite holiday — was somewhat bittersweet.  I looked around at the people I love, this family who with all their foibles and eccentricities have always been the comfort and joy of my holidays, and knew that there is a very real possibility some or even all of them might not be with me next year.

My big brother is taking early retirement to work on an internet business with his wife and plans (when he can sell his loft for a reasonable price) to move across the country.  My mother, who’s been in a wheelchair these past few years after suffering a stroke, seems to be rapidly going downhill.  The familiar patterns of my life could be drastically rearranged come 2013.

Or the Mayans could be right and as of 12/21/2012 we could all be fucked, and not even make it to 2013.  I actually do think — considering the worldwide natural disasters, social discontent and economic upheaval of recent years — the potentiality is there and maybe even is necessary as a mechanism for cleansing the slate in preparation for spiritual and social progression.

So, yeah, I’ve been contemplating, introspecting, considering, imagining and evaluating quite a bit this past week.  I don’t have answers, nor do I want answers.   I just want to be present and accountable.  I want to be always grateful.  To be grateful and resolutely confident that the world’s story unfolds as it should.  As does the adventure of my life and the adventure of the lives of those I love.

……………………………………………………..

So, was that heavy enough for you?  Well, I meant every word.

BUT …

Do not think for a moment I’ve abandoned my title, Kinkstress Princess of the Internet*, nor the inherent responsibilities of holding said title.  I did get around, I do get around … and, apparently, so do you.  “You” being my Phone Sex Clients, FemDomme Bitch Boys, Chronic Masturbators, Cross-Dressing Trollops et al.  Because I did run a New Year’s Eve Discount and you showed up in droves.

If you’re not a client, you are not on my NiteFlirt email list and did not receive the special notice.  That was not my intent, as I planned on announcing it here at Zen so that everybody who wanted to could take advantage of my most-fab KISS KISS BANG BANG discount.  Unfortunately, there were technical issues with my hosting company yesterday and — with the calls coming so fast and hard (not to mention the guys *wink*) I couldn’t out-wait the issues to get a post put up.  So here’s kinda-sorta what you would have seen:

……………………………………………………………………………………………

Ring in the New Year with Angela: $1.00 OFF per minute!

As many of you know, I love spending a cozy New Year’s Eve at home.  As is my tradition, I’m dressing up in my red stockings & heels, popping a bottle (or maybe even two bottles) of champagne and settling in front of my fireplace for a night of indulgence.

I’d love to hear from you. Call to talk dirty, or tell me the New Year resolutions you will be breaking next week, or admit how drunk you are, or whisper your perfect kinky fantasy, or drink a New Year’s toast with me, or even just to shoot the breeze.  If we’ve not spoken before, or if we haven’t spoken for a while … don’t be shy.  While I love being pampered, I do love treating my callers every once in a while, and this is a great night to do it.

You must call this listing to get the discount. 

or call direct:    1-800- 863-5478  ext. 0331122

……………………………………………………………………………………………

But as I said, the boys who did receive the emails did keep me busy, busy, busy.   So busy that I had a line of eight lined up waiting for their turn at 2:30 a.m.  I finally had to call it a night.

But is that fair?  The email went out late, this website wouldn’t cooperate so I could announce it here and then there are the guys who were otherwise engaged and couldn’t have called anyway.

Soooo ….

Here’s the good news:  I am extending the discount throughout tonight and for as much of tomorrow as I can.  At a certain point, I do get tired and the vocal cords do get a little raw and I have to take a break.  But I do promise to be available as much as possible these two days.   So call your Mistress and give her a little sugar.  She just might give you some right back. *wink*

xo

*Term bestowed upon me by a certain gentleman caller.  I kinda-sorta like it and think I’ll keep it.

]]> http://www.zenfetish.com/2011/12/24/happy-holidays/feed/ 6 http://www.zenfetish.com/2011/12/22/reindeer-games-vs-phone-sex/ http://www.zenfetish.com/2011/12/22/reindeer-games-vs-phone-sex/#comments Thu, 22 Dec 2011 20:57:57 +0000 Angela http://www.zenfetish.com/?p=1425 Would Ya? Should Ya? Could Ya?

That’s gross.  Do you talk to a lot of perverts?

You do what?  How about a date?

Oh my God!   Does your family know what you do?

I have the perfect fantasy for you: Lactation!

 Do you get a lot of fetish calls?  You know, I have this thing for feet.

More or less, these are some of the predictable reactions I get when revealing my avocation to the un-ordained. While some (including myself) might argue that phone sex has gone at least somewhat mainstream in recent years, it is still not a topic you want to be bringing up at cocktail parties. From the sincerely curious to the smugly judgmental to the stupidly horny, assumptions are going to be made. Not that I can complain too loudly.  I’ve surely been boorish, myself, a time or two (ok, maybe three or four) to make unfounded assumptions. Yet, having experienced these ignorance-based reactions first hand, I cannot help but cringe when pushed into a corner by the overly-meddlesome.

When I abandoned my dream of graduate school (just temporarily,momma, I promise) and left behind my burgeoning corporate career to do phone sex (say it isn’t so, you wretched, wanton girl), my sister, bless her beautiful heart and bourgeois tendencies, bought me a mug, which on the outside wryly asks the question, “I went to school for years to learn to do THIS?”  And, beloved sister of mine, I do cherish that mug. Notwithstanding my office supply fetish, it proudly sits–next to my Rolodex–the container-of-choice for my ink pens, letter opener, markers, nail files, orange sticks and sundry miscellanea. I cherish it because it reflects the reverent humor, easy flexibility, mutual validation, and even quirky spirituality that is so integral to whom I am and what I do both personally and professionally.

With the advent of the Internet and attendant proliferation of independent PSOs (phone sex operators), the definition of good Phone Sex has become increasingly subjective.  Simultaneously, as our world hyper-rapidly expanded, erotica and pornography flourished, and the division between fantasy and reality blurred.  Both a blessing and a curse, it can be quite exhilarating, yet, confusing and even a cause for dissent amongst its practitioners.  Some like it hot, some like it cold.  It’s that kind of thing.

(On a side note, I would think that–if nothing else–the very nature of this non-monogamous and inexhaustible Internet would be self-instructive: There REALLY is room for everybody. We have more than enough do-gooder types [You know the profile: The hypocrite who swears he is pure as the driven snow; yet, he only cums when fucking his wife by imagining her being raped by a double-shlonged reindeer.] doing their best to legislate, control, constrain, and restrict this last vestige of true freedom of expression. Just remember this: When we protect and champion each other, we protect and champion ourselves.)

Now, where were we? Oh, yes! So you’re in the mood for some wicked merrymaking.  You’ve checked out the bathroom wall at the corner gas station, and though you could swear it used to be right there above the condom dispenser, there is no graffiti, “For a good time call Cocksucker Cathy.”   With  that avenue close, you decide to take the leap and call a Phone Sex Operator!

You want Phone Sex and you want it NOW! You want it? We got it! Hot phone sex, fantasy phone sex, domination phone sex, kinky phone sex, dirty phone sex, role-play phone sex, nasty phone sex, erotic phone sex, humiliation phone sex, tease & denial phone sex.

Phone Sex! Phone Sex! Phone Sex! … and even more Phone Sex!

How do you possibly weed through it all? How do you find the perfect first connection in all of that clutter? Well, brother, quite frankly, you don’t. You just say eeny meeny miney moe and take that leap of faith. After all, brother, how hard art thou? I’m a firm believer in going by the seat of your pants (or crotch of your pants) when things just need to get done (or you need to get done).

Basically, you are entering a marketplace as a consumer.  Just like you might, time and again, visit the grocery store until you find the perfect cookie, you may have to shop for a while before you find, HER, the Phone Sex Chick that blows your mind and load like no other can.  While that can be a royal pain in the butt, I guarantee that — until you find her –you will have lots of dirty fun along the way.  It’s  sort of like dating. It will cost you the price of a few burgers and shakes, but who’s counting dollars & dimes when you’re stealing some kisses and even copping a few feels along the way?  And the pay off is that sooner or later you’re gonna get lucky!

Ho, ho, ho …  oh so fucking lucky.

Take my word on it.

xo, Angela

All hail the great Claus

Or at least bend over.

‘Cuz it’s not your stocking he wants to fill.

Certainly, here and there, you stray.   But, hey!  If you can’t cheat on your Phone Sex Goddess (*rolling eyes*), what would this world be coming to?  It is a man’s nature, after all, to sniff around … a genetic flaw of sorts.  You just can’t help yourselves.  The salient fact is that most of you (not all of you — I can only be so awesome, after all *wink*) scurry right back, seeking both absolution and asylum within the folds of my skirt.

Still … wherever thou dost ramble, with whomsoever thou dost rollick, whatever mischief with which you find yourself otherwise occupied, you still keep me posted.  A quick call, an email, a nice 5 star review or even a few words here at this blog.  Do NOT EVER think I don’t notice, because I certainly do.  Even when I’m lost in Phone Sex Diva self-absorption (blame it on the Leo in me) I always feel indulged by you:

PQS sends me his favorite “Best of Bad Writing” from the Bulwer-Lytton website:

“As the young officer studied the oak door, he was reminded of his girlfriend — for she was also slightly unhinged, occasionally sticky, and responded well to being stripped and given a light oiling.”

(to which he added:  hahahahahahaha)

And did you happen to catch is ode to me/homage to Poe here at Zen on Halloween?  He’s so fuckin’ smart:

T’was on Halloween it seeming, then did I, perchance, while dreaming
Come to view on my screen gleaming, tangled, tortured lines of woe!
As I read them, my mind streaming, horrors from a night’s bad dreaming
Assaulted me, like bat wings teeming! Anguished lines from E. A. Poe
“It must be Angie,” thought I musing, “posting rhymes from E. A. Poe!”
“Insight from a talking crow!”

But then thought I, my spirit keening, perhaps there is a hidden meaning,
A runic message intervening, buried midst this tale of woe.
But finding none, I vaguely wondered, could it be poor Poe had blundered?
What’s the chance, one in a hundred, that man could banter with a crow?
Trading anecdotes and wisdom, wisdom with a coal-black crow?
T’is unlikely, that I know.
HDB, with his signature rat-a-tat delivery,  always follows up our kinky conversations with a generous gratuity and “Thank You” email:

1. “Catatonic and it’s all your fault.”
2. “Toes curled on that one.”
3. “Can’t move. Happy boy.”

… and always 5 star reviews that go something like this:

***Pop. Sizzle. Pow. Angela rocks the stratosphere and every man in it.

… and sometimes a funny quote two:

“I haven’t left my house in days.
I watch the news channels incessantly.
All the news stories are about the election;
All the commercials are for Viagra and Cialis.
Election  -  erection  -  election  -  erection.
Either way we’re getting fucked! ~ Bette Midler.”

The Prof? He’s always short & sweet & to the point and ever so charming:

Oh lovely wonderful you.  Off to buy paint, grocery shop, etc. but ONLY thinking of you.

and consistently, creatively smitten:

Your personality is …  eclectic, electric, esoteric, erudite, epiphonous … erotic, enigmatic, elegant … so many e’s, so little time … and that’s just one letter of our elegant English.  love from The Prof, whose middle name starts with e.

Then there’s my cherished Little N:

Dear Angela,

I’m not writing this note to tell you that I adore you (you know that already) that I admire the imagination and dedication you put into what you do (you know that already) or that I consider the fantasies you weave for me so skillfully to be like healing balm on my deepest desires and aches. No, telling you that might be tainted with horny-ness and that joyous tingle that spreads through my body whenever I start talking with you.

I’m writing this note to tell you that I occasionally just plain and simple need to talk with you just about anything, and to hear your voice and laughter and share the details of my travails as you do with yours. I’m writing to tell you that I simply love talking with you, because you have a gift for making me feel human and capable and resilient.

Somehow, after a friendly chat with you I feel that those things that bothered me are not insurmountable after all. And when that’s coming from the very talented lady who knows my deepest and most convoluted fantasies, the patient lady who has experienced my soul more emotionally naked than any other woman on earth, life does feel better and less difficult.

Please rest assured – this is not a fantasy-sex-fueled infatuation, this is pure gratitude. Gratitude with a capital G. To be able to speak with a grown-up, in depth, with nothing held back, is not only a rare pleasure, but something that as adults, we should have the luck to experience with at least one person on this earth. And if we do experience this great pleasure, we need to take a deep breath, let the blessed oxygen molecules have the time to enter every dusty brain cell, exhale slowly and say: thank you. Thank you for the pleasure of knowing a tiny bit of you, thank you for our time on the phone, this time for just a casual chat, shooting the breeze, and thank you for your time and your ear.

Oh, and lest I forget, let me say this, and how do I phrase this delicately?- When we get down and dirty and nasty and you deftly interpret and delicately flesh out one of my fantasies and run it through me, my cock overflows and shoots big gobs of thick come in heart-stopping intensity. You make me jerk off and come like no one else. And you heal me. You heal me. Until I come back for my sweet medicine again, to my fantasies where all aches are healed and all cravings are satiated, to that place where you reign supreme, like a wise Empress. Because there is no one quite as good and unique and wickedly creative and artful and understanding as you.

You are awesome, babe. Just sayin’.

Yours, Little N.

A smattering of phone sex reviews (because, believe it baby, I DELIVER a 5 STAR Phone Sex Experience:

• Thank You so much, Mistress Angela! I do adore You .. and I do belong to You!
• Absolutely amazing. Really takes the time to dig into what makes your fantasy great and goes crazy with it.
• Angela, you are amazing. You took my few whispered sentences, and built an amazing fantasy around it. You are understanding, patient, and have an amazing memory when it comes to people’s shifting likes and dislikes. Thank you!
• One you go Angela, everyone else is jut plain vanilla.
• I gave Angela the set up, and she picked everything up quickly to give me a pitch-perfect rendition of my own little deviant fantasy. Great call!!
• Its a bUmPy ride
• as always, mind and load blowing – truly a thinking man’s siren, ASL is not satisfied with you wrecking your vessel on the stony shore, you’ll drive your boat full steam ahead and enjoy every bit of the tumultuous landing

So, yeah, I’m paying attention and lovin’ you guys to pieces.

xo, Angela

*** FYI: I have been trying to be available for calls as much as possible, but having picked up three tutoring gigs (parents panicking as finals loom) while redesigning my NiteFlirt pages (hoping to have everything done by the first of December, but that remains to be seen) and preparing to revamp this blog and my other Phone Sex Websites — well, I’m up to my nose in busy, busy busy.  Of course, I’m not complaining as hyper-activity does keep my Nipples hard.   Obviously all this activity is interfering with my blogging, but I will strive to be more consistent.  Be patient with me and watch for lotsa positive and naughty changes early into the New Year.  xoxoxo

I’ve been telling you guys this forever!

♥ found via Remittance Girl’s Tweet/tumblr

THE RAVEN.

Edgar Allen Poe

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
“ ’Tis some visiter,” I muttered, “tapping at my chamber door
Only this and nothing more.”

Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December;
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow; — vainly I had sought to borrow
From my books surcease of sorrow — sorrow for the lost Lenore
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore
Nameless here for evermore.

And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
Thrilled me — filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating
“ ’Tis some visiter entreating entrance at my chamber door
Some late visiter entreating entrance at my chamber door;
This it is and nothing more.”

Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
“Sir,” said I, “or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,
That I scarce was sure I heard you” Here I opened wide the door;
Darkness there and nothing more.

Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before;
But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,
And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, “Lenore?”
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, “Lenore!”
Merely this and nothing more.

Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,
Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.
“Surely,” said I, “surely that is something at my window lattice;
Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore
Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore;
Tis the wind and nothing more!”

Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
In there stepped a stately Raven of the saintly days of yore;
Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;
But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door
Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door
Perched, and sat, and nothing more.

Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,
“Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,” I said, “art sure no craven,
Ghastly grim and ancient Raven wandering from the Nightly shore
Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night’s Plutonian shore!”
Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”

Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,
Though its answer little meaning — little relevancy bore;
For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door
Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,
With such name as “Nevermore.”

But the Raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
Nothing farther then he uttered — not a feather then he fluttered
Till I scarcely more than muttered “Other friends have flown before
On the morrow he will leave me, as my Hopes have flown before.”
Then the bird said “Nevermore.”

Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
“Doubtless,” said I, “what it utters is its only stock and store
Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster
Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore
Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore
Of ‘Never — nevermore’.”

But the Raven still beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird, and bust and door;
Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore —
What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore
Meant in croaking “Nevermore.”

This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom’s core;
This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
On the cushion’s velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o’er,
But whose velvet-violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o’er,
She shall press, ah, nevermore!

Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
Swung by seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.
“Wretch,” I cried, “thy God hath lent thee — by these angels he hath sent thee
Respite — respite and nepenthe, from thy memories of Lenore;
Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Lenore!”
Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”

“Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil! — prophet still, if bird or devil! —
Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted
On this home by Horror haunted — tell me truly, I implore —
Is there — is there balm in Gilead? — tell me — tell me, I implore!”
Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”

“Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil! — prophet still, if bird or devil!
By that Heaven that bends above us — by that God we both adore
Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,
It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore.”
Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”

“Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!” I shrieked, upstarting
“Get thee back into the tempest and the Night’s Plutonian shore!
Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
Leave my loneliness unbroken! — quit the bust above my door!
Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!”
Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”

And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon’s that is dreaming,
And the lamp-light o’er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
Shall be lifted — nevermore!

______________________________________________

Buy the book, Edgar Allen Poe: The Complete Poems, HERE

Visit Poe Stories HERE

______________________________________________

Happy Halloween

xo, Angela

No Tricks, Just Treats: 

Check your NiteFlirt email for 5 FREE Phone Sex MINUTES

Victoria’s Secret

Billy Collins

The one in the upper-left-hand corner
is giving me a look
that says I know you are here
and I have nothing better to do
for the remainder of human time
than return your persistent but engaging stare.
She is wearing a deeply scalloped
flame-stitch halter top
with padded push-up styling
and easy side-zip tap pants.

The one on the facing page, however,
who looks at me over her bare shoulder,
cannot hide the shadow of annoyance in her brow.
You have interrupted me,
she seems to be saying,
with your coughing and your loud music.
Now please leave me alone;
let me finish whatever it was I was doing
in my organza-trimmed
whisperweight camisole with
keyhole closure and point d’esprit mesh back.

I wet my thumb and flip the page.
Here, the one who happens to be reclining
in a satin and lace merry widow
with an inset lace-up front,
decorated underwire cups and bodice
with lace ruffles along the bottom
and hook-and-eye closure in the back,
is wearing a slightly contorted expression,
her head thrust back, mouth partially open,
a confusing mixture of pain and surprise
as if she had stepped on a tack
just as I was breaking down
her bedroom door with my shoulder.

Nor does the one directly beneath her
looking particularly happy to see me.
She is arching one eyebrow slightly
as if to say, so what if I am wearing nothing
but this stretch panne velvet bodysuit
with a low sweetheart neckline
featuring molded cups and adjustable straps.
Do you have a problem with that?!

The one on the far right is easier to take,
her eyes half-closed
as if she were listening to a medley
of lullabies playing faintly on a music box.
Soon she will drop off to sleep,
her head nestled in the soft crook of her arm,
and later she will wake up in her
Spandex slip dress with the high side slit,
deep scoop neckline, elastic shirring,
and concealed back zip and vent.

But opposite her,
stretched out catlike on a couch
in the warm glow of a paneled library,
is one who wears a distinctly challenging expression,
her face tipped up, exposing
her long neck, her perfectly flared nostrils.
Go ahead, her expression tells me,
take off my satin charmeuse gown
with a sheer, jacquard bodice
decorated with a touch of shimmering Lurex.
Go ahead, fling it into the fireplace.
What do I care, her eyes say, we’re all going to hell anyway.

I have other mail to open,
but I cannot help noticing her neighbor
whose eyes are downcast,
her head ever so demurely bowed to the side
as if she were the model who sat for Coreggio
when he painted “The Madonna of St. Jerome,”
only, it became so ungodly hot in Parma
that afternoon, she had to remove
the traditional blue robe
and pose there in his studio
in a beautifully shaped satin teddy
with an embossed V-front,
princess seaming to mold the bodice,
and puckered knit detail.

And occupying the whole facing page
is one who displays that expression
we have come to associate with photographic beauty.
Yes, she is pouting about something,
all lower lip and cheekbone.
Perhaps her ice cream has tumbled
out of its cone onto the parquet floor.
Perhaps she has been waiting all day
for a new sofa to be delivered,
waiting all day in stretch lace hipster
with lattice edging, satin frog closures,
velvet scrollwork, cuffed ankles,
flare silhouette, and knotted shoulder straps
available in black, champagne, almond,
cinnabar, plum, bronze, mocha,
peach, ivory, caramel, blush, butter, rose, and periwinkle.
It is, of course, impossible to say,
impossible to know what she is thinking,
why her mouth is the shape of petulance.

But this is already too much.
Who has the time to linger on these delicate
lures, these once unmentionable things?