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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  ...


James Joyce: Articulate Filth

Sunday, October 26th, 2008


Dublin   2 December 1909

My love for you allows me to pray to the spirit of eternal beauty and tenderness mirrored in your eyes or fling you down under me on that softy belly of yours and fuck you up behind, like a hog riding a sow, glorying in the very stink and sweat that rises from your arse, glorying in the open shape of your upturned dress and white girlish drawers and in the confusion of your flushed cheeks and tangled hair. It allows me to burst into tears of pity and love at some slight word, to tremble with love for you at the sounding of some chord or cadence of music or to lie heads and tails with you feeling your fingers fondling and tickling my ballocks or stuck up in me behind and your hot lips sucking off my cock while my head is wedged in between your fat thighs, my hands clutching the round cushions of your bum and my tongue licking ravenously up your rank red cunt. I have taught you almost to swoon at the hearing of my voice singing or murmuring to your soul the passion and sorrow and mystery of life and at the same time have taught you to make filthy signs to me with your lips and tongue, to provoke me by obscene touches and noises, and even to do in my presence the most shameful and filthy act of the body. You remember the day you pulled up your clothes and let me lie under you looking up at you while you did it? Then you were ashamed even to meet my eyes.

You are mine, darling, mine! I love you. All I have written above is only a moment or two of brutal madness. The last drop of seed has hardly been squirted up your cunt before it is over and my true love for you, the love of my verses, the love of my eyes for your strange luring eyes, comes blowing over my soul like a wind of spices. My prick is still hot and stiff and quivering from the last brutal drive it has given you when a faint hymn is heard rising in tender pitiful worship of you from the dim cloisters of my heart.

Nora, my faithful darling, my seet-eyed blackguard schoolgirl, be my whore, my mistress, as much as you like (my little frigging mistress! My little fucking whore!) you are always my beautiful wild flower of the hedges, my dark-blue rain-drenched flower.



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.