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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  ...

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Memorial Day

Monday, May 25th, 2015

IT IS THE SOLDIER

by Charles M. Province

It is the Soldier, not the minister
Who has given us freedom of religion.

It is the Soldier, not the reporter
Who has given us freedom of the press.

It is the Soldier, not the poet
Who has given us freedom of speech.

It is the Soldier, not the campus organizer
Who has given us freedom to protest.

It is the Soldier, not the lawyer
Who has given us the right to a fair trial.

It is the Soldier, not the politician
Who has given us the right to vote.

It is the Soldier who salutes the flag,
Who serves beneath the flag,
And whose coffin is draped by the flag,
Who allows the protester to burn the flag.

———————————————–

Requital

Wounded Warriors Project

Happy Birthday to Me!

Sunday, August 15th, 2010

Angela:

Here’s a birthday poem for my FAVORITE PSO.

Pervert Q. Savant

Literate Smut

I’m a normal old guy, you can just call me Tex
I live just outside Dallas, you can check all my specs!
Well, I saw this here ad about “Literate Sex.”

         And I thought, “What the hell, I’ll just pay my respects!”

The website said Angela was the lady’s first name
And the brainiest phone sex was her claim to fame
My dear wife was off at her weekly bridge game

    So I bought me five minutes (I’ve no sense of shame!)

I dialed up the number (It’s in the public domain!)
And advised Miss St. Lawrence about what pulled my chain
“I like dirty words. Thank you!! But no whips or pain!

         “Said she: “I knew it immediately. You’re an erotomane!”

I scratched at my head. It was a new word for me
It wasn’t there anywhere in my vocabulary.
Said I, “Are you giving me the third degree?”

         “Said she: “I screen all members of the bourgeoisie.”

That was another word that just didn’t engage
It made me uneasy about my genital stage
I wasn’t sure Angela was on my same page

    Said she, “I suspect that you might be a strange coprophage!”

I have to say now, that word took me aback
I’d never heard it before. But I cut her no slack. 
“Hell no!” I exclaimed.  “Don’t have a panic attack!”

    “Said she, “I may have to punish your petite scrotal sac.”

That was another term that just wasn’t my style!
It passed over my brain by a good nautical mile.
Said I, “If you’re a young babe we can talk for a while.”

    Said she: “Aha! So it seems you’re no gerontophile!”

Hearing these new words, they set me affright
Perhaps she was thinking I was no bright light
Said I:  “Let’s get to it! What’s in store for tonight?”

    Said she: “I was thinking of a hermaphrodite.”

Said I: “Let’s just you and I do it in the ‘missionary’!”
(See, “hermaphrodite” wasn’t in my dictionary)
“And don’t pair me up with no simperin’ fairy!”

    Said she:  “A succubus I know might like your cherry!”

“Sucking!” said I.  Yes!  That rings my bell!”
And I felt my member commencing to swell
My heart started pumping like an artesian well

    Said she: “Do you prefer a Monsieur or a Mademoiselle?”

But before I could answer she spun out a tale
About a big black something the size of a whale
That shot up my asshole like a Galveston gale

    Said she: “Succubi like to inhabit a male!”

Bucking and snorting, it left me with piles
It felt like my anus had been rubbed with steel files
When my five minutes ended, I was tired of her wiles

    Said she: “Don’t call me again!  I prefer bibliophiles!”

____________________________

Thanks, PQS!  And thanks to all the rest of  my sweet You Know Whos for the presents and emails.

xo, Angela

Podophilia in Blank Verse

Sunday, November 29th, 2009

FOOT FETISH FRANK

by Cynthia French

At first it was fabulous
dating Frank, the foot fetish guy
He asked me one night,
can I massage your feet?

And I let him. Ooohing and Aahing
to the sensation of skin against skin
in between my toes, sending sensations
reverberating through my body.
It was almost better than sex
Almost.

Before our next date, I painted
my toenails purple
His face lit up in smiles gazing at my feet
he came out of the closet
"I love feet," Frank said
and I didn’t care.
At least I had found a man that was honest.

So I kept my toenails long and polished
black his favorite color
and he kept rubbing my tired feet
and watching them
and kissing them
and sucking on my toes
strange, I know…but damn it felt good

Then it got worse
or weird
or something.

Frank, the foot fetish guy started showing me
pictures of feet he’d found on the web
excited to learn about a foot fetish web ring
photos of celebrity feet
Mira Sorvino, Gena Davis, Uma Thurman
all their feet for all to see.

He started reading me stories
sexual scenarios of feet fetish frenzies
sent Frank into sexual overdrive
let’s try this and this and this he’d exclaim.
Frank started buying me shoes accentuating toe cleavage.

Then came the socks
All sorts of socks
toe socks, mitten socks
argyle animal print
socks by Miller
sheer socks
stockings (he insisted on watching me put on my stockings)
slippers too, furry ones, open toed
strappy sandals
high heels
ankle bracelets
toe rings
temporary tattoos.

Then it happened.

After I fell and slid across the marble floor of the apartment building lobby wearing my newest 4 inch spiked red heels, spraining my wrist and flashing the doorman, I knew I was in trouble.
He’d pulled me into his foot fetish fantasy world and I couldn’t see a way out.

Even the food in my cupboards had changed.
Whipped cream, chocolate syrup, creamy peanut butter
all things that tantalized his taste buds
as he sucked my toes.

My credit card bill showed
charges of a foot fetish shopping spree
Bath and Body lotions and scrubs
Eucalyptus foot cream
massage books
silk nylons
files and buffers
polish of all colors.
My credit cards maxed,
my wrist wrapped and throbbing
Blushed red from embarrassment
Frank down on his knees in front of me
lifting his pant leg
revealing a sock with a tiny pocket
from which he pulls a ring
and as he say the words, I cry out NO!
I can’t live a lie any longer I’m afraid
Frank. I said
Feet stink.
_________________________________________

I couldn’t find a lot on Ms. French, but did locate this homepage, where there is a sampling of her work.  Hopefully, we’ll be hearing more from her soon.  I’m inspired.  Haven’t written a naughty poem in a while.  It’s about time, so watch out.