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Angela St. Lawrence is the reigning queen of high-end, long distance training and Femme Domme phone sex, providing esoteric depravity for the aficionado, specializing in Erotic Fetish, Female Domination, Cock Control, Kinky Taboo and Sensual Debauchery. To make an appointment or speak with Ms. St. Lawrence  ...


Balloon Fetish Poem

Tuesday, November 10th, 2009

How to Make Love to a Balloon.

by Claudia Carlson

Let it rise to the ceiling
Tie it down with a velvet ribbon
Let your own breath fill its single lung
Rub talcum powder into its unfilled flanks
Fill it with water and roll it across a waterbed
Draw nose mouth ears and eyes on it in lipstick
Suckle its nipple with the thin milk of your spit
Rub taut belly against your slip until you cling
Take its inflating tongue into your mouth
Try to sing with it riding your tongue
Read it poetry by e e cummings
Introduce it to helium
Call it a secret name
Inflate its ego
Let it go


Well.  Not really a "fetish" poem per se.  It’s more of a lyrical seduction.  If someone would attend me with such concentrated ardor I might like being a balloon.  Maybe someday when I grow up I’ll be able to write as beautifully as Ms. Carlson.  She has a fascinating blog, Elephant House, where she reveals she is working on a novel.  Which — once it’s published — I will quickly put on my Book Wish List and one of my fine gentleman readers will buy for me.  Right, HDB?

Special thanks to Pervert Savant for tucking this extra-special poem into my email box.  It made my day.

xo, Angela

Poetry on Broadway … Tra la la

Tuesday, October 20th, 2009


by Frederick Seidel

A naked woman my age is a total nightmare.
A woman my age naked is a nightmare.
It doesn’t matter. One doesn’t care.
One doesn’t say it out loud because it’s rare
For anyone to be willing to say it,
Because it’s the equivalent of buying billboard space to display it,

Display how horrible life after death is,
How horrible to draw your last breath is,
When you go on living.
I hate the old couples on their walkers giving
Off odors of love, and in City Diner eating a ray

Of hope, and paying and trembling back out on Broadway,

Drumming and dancing, chanting something nearly unbearable,
Spreading their wings in order to be more beautiful and more terrible.


Poetry:  I just can’t get enough, it seems.  Yeah, I know you come here to read dirty stuff from the Phone Sex Goddess, the Queen of Kink, the Damsel of Debauchery.  I get that.  I really do.  But there is a lot more to me than "Smut Literatrix" and if you don’t want these other parts of me … sorry, chump.  Google your favorite dirty words and get on with it. Or you could hop on over to Blistered Lips, where I keep my little trove of personally-written FREE smut.  Either way, I’ll be here when you get back. 

So let’s get back to talking about this poem/poet.  First off, from my point of observation, it’s comme il faut to blog about this poem today, because I’m going to a Broadway show tonight.  And, oh yes, I am excited.  But more about that at some future date. 

It seems that Mr. Seidel is currently the toast of the town with the recent publication of Poems 1959-2009.  Everybody’s talking and I’m listening. 

Michael Hoffman of The Poetry Foundation notes: 

From the beginning, Seidel was always a bogeyman, a Bürgerschreck, an épateur—a carnivore if not a cannibal in the blandly vegan compound of contemporary poetry

From Wyatt Mason at The New York Times:

 … novelists are among Seidel’s most articulate advocates. Norman Rush recognizes how Seidel’s choices can be misunderstood: “The risks Seidel takes have to do with threatening the potential affection of new readers. They may see him as a ‘swell’ and take that presentation as reason enough not to be interested in what he’s doing. He doesn’t cozen the reader. But if you persist, the power and profundity of Seidel’s games, and his nerve, will get you — draw you into the extremely complex set of experiences that he’s laid out for you to have.”

Adam Kirsh (The New York Sun) answers the question, "Who is the best American poet writing today?" with:

Though the news will not be welcome to prize juries, literary philanthropists, and the people who choose the poems for the subway, I think it may be Frederick Seidel. There is a reason why Mr. Seidel, whose first book was published more than 40 years ago, has not accumulated the cargo of honors that turn so many poets his age into mere worthies: no Pulitzer, no National Book Award. Indeed, if you go to the "about the author" section of Mr. Seidel’s new Web site, you will find no curriculum vitae at all. Instead, Mr. Seidel offers a clipping from a 1962 issue of the New York Times, about the controversy that resulted when a panel of poets chose his first collection, "Final Solutions," for the 92nd Street Y’s inaugural poetry prize. Though the judges included Robert Lowell, the sponsor refused to publish the book, on the grounds that it libeled a living person.

Now — to my mind — this is an exciting and fascinating man/poet/iconoclast.  Being somewhat of a maverick myself, I am downright rapturous over this guy and his book.  I want to know more more more.  Give me more more more.  I want a biography.  I want an autobiography.  I want that book of poems.  I want it bad bad bad.  I want it yesterday.  I want to prop it up next to my PC so I can cast loving glances at it.  I want it in my purse so I can take it out at the nail salon and impress my fellow fashionistas.  II want it under my pillow at night so I can fondle it and smell it up-close-and-personal.

But that’s beside the point.   What’s more important is that I feel and see so much with this poem.  First of all — despite the fact I’ve never been even close to New York — I feel the New York-iness of this poem.  I can see the City Diner.  I am sitting in the City Diner, feeling the aged leather of the booth cling to my legs as I peruse a yellowed menu of cheap and fattening food while watching the natives order french fries (not home fries!) with their bacon and eggs from a waitress named Frannie, wearing a triangled handkerchief above her left breast. 

I know that elderly couple and the scent of their weathered love.  A love so strong and so anchored in time they could care less what a poet sophisticate thinks of them … they have each other.

And how dare Mr. Seidel  talk so candidly of aging women.  Ouch!  It just touches sooo deeply  — and I’m not complaining, mind you.  bring it on, Mr. Seidel.  make me choke on your poem — because I fear aging, having played the youth card for all its worth in the pursuit and conquering of men. 

Can you tell I’m excited?  Yes, indeed, I am.  I’ve caught up with some of Mr. Seidel’s work elsewhere.  And I’m more than excited:  I’m downright smitten.  I’m hot to trot.  I’m turned upside down and inside out.  This guy is a versifying genius.  I just might make him the Poet Savant of Zen.  A new savant is — after all — long overdue, and I don’t think there’s anyone else even close to being worthy of carrying the mantle.  Although I don’t think he’d thank me in the morning.  *wink*

I’ll be thinking about you and Mr. Seidel and all that jazz on my way to the theater this evening.  I’m much excited, and engaged and enthused  — the three "Es" of Self-Actualization (I made that up, but it works for me).  A special thank you to Mr. Smith who sent me a link in an email and got this whole ball rolling.  The only other occasion he took time from his (most likely) busy schedule to write me was to complain about something we’ve since ironed out.  So it was with much pleasure I received this particular email today.  You did good, Mr. Smith!

xo, Angela

ps. Speaking of Fredericks … Fredrick the Cross Dressing Cat has started his own blog.  How cute is that?  I always knew he was smarter than the average kitty.  He’s also tweeting at twitter, so make sure to follow him.

She Should Have it all. (of course)

Sunday, March 29th, 2009


Pamela Redmond Satran

enough money within her control to move out
and rent a place of her own,
even if she never wants to or needs to….

perfect to wear if the employer,
or date of her dreams
wants to see her in an hour…

a youth she’s content to leave behind …

a past juicy
enough that she’s looking forward to
retelling it in her
old age …

a set of screwdrivers, a cordless drill, and a black lace bra …

one friend who
always makes her laugh.. and one who lets her cry…

a good piece
of furniture not previously owned by anyone else in her
family …

matching plates, wine glasses with stems,
and a recipe for
a meal,
that will make her guests feel honored …

a feeling of
control over her destiny …

how to fall in love without losing herself …

how to quit
a job,
break up with a lover,
and confront a friend
ruining the friendship …

when to try harder… and WHEN TO WALK

that she can’t change the length of her calves,
the width of her hips, or the nature of her parents …

that her
childhood may not have been perfect … but it’s over …

what she
would and wouldn’t do for love or more …

how to live
alone … even if she doesn’t like it …

whom she can trust,
whom she can’t,
and why she shouldn’t take it personally …

where to
go ….
be it to her best friend’s kitchen table..
or a
charming Inn in the woods …
when her soul needs
soothing …

What she can and can’t accomplish in a day …
a month … and a year …


Well, this one was a little rough to get formatted properly … and I still might not have it all in place.  Despite what might not be totally kosher (as in "originally written"), I worked hard on getting it to fit and make sense, so enjoy as is.  The backstory is that my sister sent me this, subject line:  Best Maya Angelou Poem Ever!  And I simply adored it, being the girly-woman I am.

Yet, something seemed kinda-sorta funny about this.  You see, like most women, I’m a huge Maya Angelou fan.  And while I don’t know all of her work, I certainly know the important stuff — so why hadn’t I ever heard of this poem?  Hmmm.  Time for some googling.  Which brought up this at the Snopes Site.  The REAL Poetess behind this beautiful poem is Pamela Redmond Satran, who happens to have an awesome website where you can buy her books.  Buy her books for me, because I’m totally a Book Bitch and I will read them and tell you all about them.  See how nice I am?


Which reminds me:

Best Book I’ve Read This YearThe Best American Non-Required Reading 2008

Which is edited by Dave Eggers (A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius) whom I adore and includes an introduction by Judy Blume (Otherwise Known As Sheila the Great) whom I immensely respect (never got into girly-cutesy fiction even as an adolescent/preteen).  It’s also an attractive book  — it just looks damnably good on the shelf — the cover artwork being that of graffiti artist Barry McGee (check him out here and here).

And I really, really, really wouldn’t mind having 2007, 2006 and 2005.  There’s more … but that would pretty awesome and keep me damn happy for right now.

Worst Book I’ve Read This Year That  I Thought  Would Be The Best Book I’ve Read This Year:  Wicked

Oh-me-oh-my!  I sooo wanted to love this book; from which the Broadway Musical was adapted.  Since hearing this song, I’ve been wanting to see the show and will be seeing it this fall, if all goes as planned.   As far as the book goes, I found the characters uninteresting, the pacing tedious and the convoluted storyline nerve-wracking. Considering the nominations and awards the show has garnered, the same is not true of the musical, so I’m as enthuastic as ever.  Maybe even more so, now that I am curious as to how the writers fixed/transformed the original story.


Thanks to the guys who sent me these books for Christmas, because they are exactly what I would have eventually bought for myself.  You know me well and treat me even better than well, and I adore you for it.


Phone Sex Goddess of the Day: 

Bella Daisy who keeps a most interesting journal, which you can read right here.  If you like fiesty Italian Princess types, Bella’s your girl.  She’s cute as a button and extremely sexy.  But be forwarned:  she is a woman in control and you will submit!  Call Bella now!


Phone Sex Quote of the Day:

I tried phone sex once, but the holes were too small.


And, yup, I’ve obviously been a bit lax in blogging recently.  But do forgive me, because life has been outrageously busy and I have a new personal trainer who is a total bitch — keeping me uber busy, tired and aching.  But I’m looking good and feeling great.  So we can’t really fault either her or me.   Now, can we?

xo, Angela


Holiday Hump Day

Saturday, December 29th, 2007

This is just going to be a rambling post (with lots of fun links just 4 u) because, well, I just want to talk to you, baby.  Sex, sex, sex.  It's all we ever do most of the time.

Cuckold me, you whisper into my ear, beat my balls with a tire iron, tie me up and tease me 'til I cry for mercy, dress me up in pink panties and make me eat cock, pierce my nipples with your carpet needle, fuck me with that big leather strap-on you keep in the bed stand drawer, make me worship your ass and eat my own cum, make me stroke to your sexy voice counting me down, spit on my face and slap me and tell me I'm your pussy boy, spank my ass and tell me I'm a naughty boy, castrate me until I cum but put them right back for the next time, play nurse and give me an enema, super-glue my dick to my belly, maybe even just a missionary fuck me.  Fuck me, at least, for chrizt's sake. Just give me sex, sex, sex and more sex.

Geeze!  Can't we just hold hands and snuggle once in a while?  Is that too much to ask?  Just tuck that prick back into your PJs and maybe you'll get lucky later.   That's a good boy.  Now go get us a cup of that hot, fresh coffee.  It's Starbucks, dontcha know?  Only the best for you and me.


So I'm into this big Science Fiction reading marathon as of late.  If you know me at least a little bit by now, you know I am a vehement reader.  If I'm not in the middle of good book, I actually feel slightly askew–like something necessary to my well being is missing.  Which can actually cause me to be quite cranky.  I just simply can't go to sleep until I've read at least a page or two of a book.  (So remember that if you're thinking about marrying me.  The light on my side of the bed could be on for minutes or hours.  And it is not negotiable!)  

I'd been holding on to an Amazon gift card since last Christmas and as of late been discussing books in general with both Pervert Savant and Vanilla Savant.  I could feel myself revving up for a book-buying binge.  Twice before in my life — once while in grade school and again in high school — I'd detoured into science fiction, and had even taken a Science Fiction and Fantasy course in college.

I'm into my second big, fat anthology sci fi book so far and it has been simply glorious.  I love short science fiction even more than full-length novels. This is a seriously big pile of books, including James Tiptree's Award Anthologies 1, 2 and 3, Richard Matheson's I am Legend and Hell House, and Walter Miller. Jr.'s A Canticle for Leibowitz.

I also tossed in Valerie Plame Wilson's Fair Game, because I really want to know what she has to say about the Bush et.al ass-fucking she got. Then there's Peter Walsh's It's All to Much, because balance hasn't been one of my stronger points as of late (and it was on sale!) and Robin McGraw's Inside My Heart because she sleeps with the one and only Dr. Phil, whom I simply adore.

For brain candy I added a variety of crime novels, among them The Surgeon and The Righteous Men.  And if you've been wondering if we can escape 9 – 5, live anywhere, and join the new rich, I'll let you know after I finish reading The 4 – Hour Workweek.  Plus I have this darling of a book, a Christmas present from someone extra special, Dr. Tatiana's Sex Advice To All Creation, by Olivia Judson (it's a keeper: buy it.)  


Which brings us to ponder upon a certain point.  What's my biggest fetish?  Books?  Or is it shoes?  Or is it six of one, half a dozen of the other?  I will tell you that the last time I went shopping for a pair of shoes — all I wanted was a pair of white, leather Keds — I walked out of the store with eight pairs.  Right now I have my eye on three pairs of Skechers, of which I will show you JUST ONE PAIR.  Are those adorable or what? 

Well, now you know why I try to stay away from book stores and shoe stores.


Recently, I've been flattered by a few clients writing what one might call Fantasy Fan Fiction, basing their imaginative pieces upon something I've put into their kinky, little brains one way or the other.

David Webb, my caller who jerks to the stars (remember?), took three of my written fantasies from Blistered Lips — Jack Off For Me, Masturbating Boy and FemDom Handjob — and weaved them around a fantasy starring himself and Ali Larter (scroll to December 8, 2007).  David is just the sweetest guy and is having so much fun with his blog, that he is like a kid, albeit a kinky kid, in a candy shop.  And he DOES take candy from strangers.  Every chance he gets.

Then Porno Person (of Purient Interests) turned around and put his cute little fingers to the keyboard to write a Vampire Fantasy titled Blood Red Saturday Night (scroll to December 20, 2007) based upon a fantasy we did on the phone a few weeks back.   It's a good read and much better than my original version, although I was making it up by the seat of my panties, babbling on about whatever was popping onto the murky, smarmy panorama of my kink-O-vision screen.


Before I forget, there's a rather new place on the Net for Phone Sex Aficionados — both callers and PSOs — to hang out.  The Phone Sex Node (click the link, silly rabbit.  then sign up.  and use an alias.  duh!) is sponsored by a Miss Eve Scarlet.  I recently joined, so you can find me there and some pretty interesting boys and girls.  Many members keep blogs, there is a forum, and pictures too!  If you join, don't be shy.  Let me know you're there.


Oh, and BTW.  If you're a caller and have forgotten to leave feedback for moi, you can always go here and DO IT RIGHT NOW!  Just remember what Isabella Valentine says:  Good Feedback is Good Karma.


Women's Ass Size: New Study

There is a new study just released by the American Psychiatric Association about women and how they feel about their asses.

The results are pretty shocking:

  1. Only 5% of women surveyed feel their ass is too big.
  2. Only 10% of women surveyed feel their ass is too small.
  3. The remaing 85% say they don't care. He's a good man and they love him, so they are going to keep him anyway.


So I'm outta here, sweetie.  Did you enjoy our little Holiday Hump Day chat?  What?  You still want sex?  Dream on, Buster Boy.  I have some serious reading to get to.

xo, Angela