web hit counter

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.

The Crux of the Fux

Monday, May 18th, 2009

David Lehman

The happiest moment in a woman’s life
Is when she hears the turn of her lover’s key
In the lock, and pretends to be asleep
When he enters the room, trying to be
Quiet but clumsy, bumping into things,
And she can smell the liquor on his breath
But forgives him because she has him back
And doesn’t have to sleep alone.

The happiest moment in a man’s life
Is when he climbs out of bed
With a woman, after an hour’s sleep,
After making love, and pulls on
His trousers, and walks outside,
And pees in the bushes, and sees
The high August sky full of stars

And gets in his car and drives home.


Thanks to PQS, whose appreciation of poetry delights me to absolutely no end.  Because he used to make fun of my "poetry thing."  And now he’s a gleeful and eager confederate.  You can read more about Mr. Lehman HERE.  And did you know he wrote a poem for Obama’s inauguration?  Well he did, and you can see him read it HERE.


Phone Sex Quote of the Day

A contract of mutual self-delusion exists between the caller and the phone sex operator.  The caller imagines he is speaking to his most secret fantasy — and whatever it might be — animal, vegetable or mineral, the operator willingly plays the part.

Phillip Toledano (Phone Sex: The Book)


Phone Sex Babes of the Day

Young Ashley:  She never says no!

Hot Hanna:  She will do anything to please her Master!

Frannie the Trannie:  Forced Bi and Sissy Training!


Okay … that’s all for today.  Off to gamble with my mother.  Wish me well, cross your fingers and your toes.  And call soon.

xo, Angela

Spiritual Meter is Everywhere

Thursday, August 14th, 2008


by Rodney Jones

Over time it occurs to me
I am building a shed that will burn.
Footer and sill, whatever I do
flames blue and translates to ash.
The nail shrieks as it enters the joist
and streams out, shrieks
and drips a metal tear
from the elemental eye.

What I do not know is here.
I worship wood and the instant.
What is over, I can never finish.
The angel of work is sweat.
And still as I move the brush
many faces look back at me.
The stain vanishing into the knot
reminds me of something I forgot.


In a later entry, I will tell you were I found this absolutley astounding poem.  In the meantime:

Rodney King’s book of poetry, Salvation Blues: 100 poems, 1985–2005, is AVAILABLE AT AMAZON

About Rodney Jones AT BLACKBIRD

An interview with Rodney Jones at STORY SOUTH.

Put your weenie away and pay attention!  Are you paying attention now?  Are you feeling it?  Absorbing?  Luxuriating?  Thinking?  I hope so, because I will be asking you about this the next time we talk.

xo, Angela

Remember to Weep

Friday, April 18th, 2008


by Primo Levi

You who live secure
In your warm houses
Who return at evening to find
Hot food and friendly faces:

Consider whether this is a man,
Who labours in the mud
Who knows no peace
Who fights for a crust of bread
Who dies at a yes or a no.
Consider whether this is a woman,
Without hair or name
With no more strength to remember
Eyes empty and womb cold
As a frog in winter.

Consider that this has been:
I commend these words to you.
Engrave them on your hearts
When you are in your house, when you walk on your way,
When you go to bed, when you rise.
Repeat them to your children.
Or may your house crumble,
Disease render you powerless,
Your offspring avert their faces from you.


Primo Levi, an Italian Jew, was a concentration camp survivor, who became famous with his autobiographical book, If This is a Man.  Haunted by the fact that he’d somehow survived Auschwitz, while many he believed better than himself did not, he tragically committed suicide in 1987 at the age of sixty-seven.

I thought it was time for another PSOetry entry, as it had been a while.  Thanks to PQS, who’d sent me this quite a while back.  This is kinda-sorta a special entry for my dear and sweet Jewish callers who generously give me their time and attention, and teach me so much with their indubitable wisdom and humble majesty. 

Read more about Primo Levi:  HERE and HERE and HERE

An explanation of the word, Shema

xo, Angela