….almost.

At least I think I’m on the way to better. Or maybe just the best I can do.

So…some good things about being sick:

• Falling in love with Oprah all over again.
• Watching Charlie Rose interview one of my favorite people, Morgan Freeman.
• Sleeping any damn time I want for as long as I want.
• Watching my neighbors dig themselves out of a snowstorm while wearing PJs and drinking a cup of rasberry brandy-spiked tea.
• Leaving the PC off for two days. Technology isn’t worth crap when you’re sick.
• Not answering my phone, because I’m sick and I dont’ have to. So there.
• Canceling a dental appointment.
• Stopping my closet smoking habit. Might as well, while my throat feels like this.
• Finding all the meds I’d stuffed in cupboards and closets when I’d first moved in here and never had any reason –until now– to look for.
• Two hour bubble baths every day. Because they make you feel so good when you’re sick.
• Mixing drugs for maximum effect. (Shhh… Don’t tell my doctor.)
• Knowing that I can masturbate anytime I please. Because, let’s face it, there isn’t much else to do. Not that I did or didn’t, mind you.
• Reading books.
• Slathering myself with creams and lotions. It’s a good thing.

Probably a lot more I could list. But that’s a good start. We won’t talk about all the stuff that has been put on hold and is peeking out at me from the corners of this quit time, just waiting to get back in and drive me nuts. Like the one hundred Christmas cards sitting on my dining room table…still boxed, still waiting. Or the furniture shopping I’ve had on a back burner forever and a day.

It does feel good to be putting up this blog entry. I missed you guys! I’ll be back tomorrow…I promise.

xo, Angela

Reading my email, it’s clear that I’ve been missed…even fretted about. Never fear, beloved and appreciated readers, all is well. I just decided to extend Thanksgiving into a long holiday weekend. Much deserved, I do believe.

Although today, on what should my first day back in the saddle, it seems I may be getting strep throat or something akin to it. My throat is really hurting in a new way I’ve not before experienced.

It is a “wait and see” thing I guess. Until, that is, the soreness either proves to be a weird thing that fades away or develops a few more symptoms so that I can focus on my “affliction” and deal accordingly.

So until tomorrow (when you will be stuck with me whether you like it or not if the threatened snow storm actually makes its way here):

The tackiest Christmas present ever?

Fun with regifting.

Have you been blinded by the blonde?

Oh my, a Boy on Boy fantasy. With erotic art!

xo, Angela

Love, Angela

And for a special song from your Thanksgiving dinner: Click Here

…or on the Edge of Vanilla.

One and the same, kinda-maybe-sorta?

I love, adore, worship, fantasize about, treasure, relish, celebrate all things kink. In proper measure, that is. So many ways to be sexy, to turn others and ourselves on…why get fetished out? Because being fetished out is an addictive behavior, don’t ya know? And it robs us and those we love of so many experiences waiting to be shared.

I am thinking along these lines for three very specific reasons. Let’s look at them individually, shall we?

Submissive Savant: A Well-Balanced Slave-Type

I know I speak of Richard quite often, but I’m like that with my friends. So quit your griping and deal with it already! Richard, as you should know by now is in love with and loved by his provacative/kissable Goddess Alexandra. He does have and knows that he has the best of both worlds: the lazy intimacy of connected spirits and the edgy heat of kink and fetish play. I like this guy’s style. I like it a lot. We should all be so lucky to have it all, and know to appreciate it.

So it seems Richard decided to make a list. A very special list. Because even the most balanced of us need to sometimes wallow in the kinkier strains of our multifaceted selves. Titled Ten Best Things About BDSM, Richard’s list (which includes –gawd, I love this guy– peace and self-knowledge) is presented as a meme (project) in which we kinkster-blogger types are welcome to participate. I am contemplating a few lists along these lines. Probably should have one up tomorrow. That oughta wet your wicked little whistles.

Vanilla Savant: My Teacher and Student

Specializing in Fetish/Kink/FemDom Fantasy Phone Sex, I have to admit that Mr. Vanilla is not my typical client. But he showed up and stuck around, despite my giving him a tongue lashing (because I’m a big baby sometimes) via email before we’d even spoken on the phone. I feel pretty darn lucky that he chivalrously chose to ignore my brattiness and give me a chance, because I’ve benefited much from what has turned into a deep friendship of mutual affection and appreciation.

Mr. Vanilla was and still is, well, vanilla at heart. But what’s so wrong with that? After all, it’s how homes are built, babies are made, families are grown. And he has done all of that and done it well. He teaches me every day about decency, honesty, doing the right thing.

I –or somebody like me– was a secondary thought in Mr. Vanilla’s life. A choice he made due to the unfair choices of others. At least I think that is a good way to put it.

But once he arrived, I began ever-so-slowly to introduce him to “kink around the edges.” And guess what? He likes it. He likes it a lot. And he really likes me. And no — absolutely not! I will not tell you about our personally shared kink. That is his to keep forever. And it is mine to keep safe for him forever.

And guess what else? I really like him. In fact, as he is now officially a part of my Savant Collection, I think I will introduce him to you (if he’ll let me…I haven’t asked yet) in an up and coming entry. Stay tuned for The Vanilla Savant Interview.

Balancing Act: Va-Kink-Nilla

So I made a new friend today, a most interesting one. I’d been catching his comments on Richard’s blog (see above), signed Tom Allen, which linked to his blog. Impressed by what he had to say, I checked him out with my most insightful Submissive Savant. “One of the Good Guys,” Richard said. And that was good enough for me.

Surreptitiously reading Tom’s blog and paying attention to (and usually agreeing with) the things he has to say for more than a few days now, I’ve come to the most delightful conclusion that he and I have, in fact, much in common.

I should have known. After all, he named his blog, The Edge of Vanilla. Which is where I am most of the time. FemDom for fun and games and fantasy play, but mostly creamy vanilla in the center. I just like room to stretch when the mood strikes me…which seems to be what Tom is aiming for.

So I finally took the plunge and posted a comment at his blog yesterday. And guess what? He knew who I was. Just blew me away, let me tell ya. So I’ve listed him under Hot Blog over to the right. Visit him often. He has lots to learn and lots to teach. They’re always the most fun people to be around, don’t ya think?

~Angela

by Pervert Savant

The Poignant Story of a Young Pre-Operative Transsexual Forced into a Life of Twisted Sex and Degradation in the Sordid Confines of America’s Penal System!

Chapter 1: Twisted Sex in the Prison Infirmary

 

Cherie inhaled languidly on her first Virginia Slim of the day and idly contemplated the hairy figure of the bleeding con that was strapped to the prison infirmary’s examination table. The scarlet wound in the con’s abdomen did not look good to Cherie.

 

“We found him in Block Seven with a shiv stuck in his gizzard," growled Biff, the statuesque female guard that had brought him in.  “You better patch him up quick before he meets his maker! The Warden isn’t gonna like this."

 

“Biff" wasn’t the guard’s real name, Cherie knew. Her first name was actually “Mary."  But Biff, like most of the female prison guards at West Texas Corrective Facility for Incorrigibles #8, was a bull dyke. You couldn’t be a card-carrying bull dyke at West Texas Corrective and have a first name like Mary.

 

Cherie took a last puff from her full-flavored Luxury Light 120 (her favorite!) and directed her attention to the con, who was struggling to put his strapped hands over his gushing wound while moaning prayers in Spanish.

 

“Santa Maria, Madre de Dios"

 

Cherie confidently reached for a bottle of antiseptic, noting, as she did so, that her long, artificial nails could use a new coat of polish. It was so HARD keeping her nails looking the way they should and still be a prison nurse. It was one of Cherie’s biggest regrets about her occupational status at West Texas Corrective. “It’s so sad," thought Cherie as she pulled on a pair of latex gloves. “At West Texas Corrective, fashion always seems to be a secondary consideration."

 

“There, there sugar. You just stop that nasty moaning!  We’ll have you as good as new in just a jiffy," Cherie chirped cheerily.  “Now hold still! I don’t need to break another nail!"

 

Biff snorted disparagingly at the groaning Hispanic, all the while admiring the lush contours of Cherie’s buttocks. These were prominently on display as Cherie bent over the leaking Mexican and expertly poured antiseptic into the crimson maw that had once been an intact stomach.  "Nice ass," mused Biff idly to herself.  “I wouldn’t mind having a crack at that crack!"

 

Biff pulled an unfiltered Camel from behind her left ear and ignited it with a nickel-plated Zippo lighter. The Zippo was a gift from one of Biff’s former lovers. The name “Biff" was prominently engraved on its side in Old English lettering.

 

“Yeah, Cherie’s one nice piece of fluff," Biff mused.  "It’s a shame that the Warden’s got designs on her. Otherwise, I might put a move on her myself!"

 

The brown antiseptic that Cherie had poured into the hole in his gut seemed to enliven Alejandro. His low moans quickly turned to screams and his twitching increased and became markedly more spasmodic. Cherie waved a long-nailed finger under Alejandro’s nose and said, firmly, “Now you just hush up, honey! I’m working as fast as I can!"

 

Cherie’s confident manner, coupled with his acute loss of blood, seemed to calm Alejandro. His screams gradually receded into muffled sobs and his twitching changed to merely an occasional spasm of jerks. Cherie’s well-intentioned ministrations were obviously having their designed effect.

 

While Alejandro continued to writhe on the examination table, Cherie minced over to a glass-paneled cabinet. Cherie’s movements continued to intrigue Biff, who took another opportunity to ogle Cherie’s tush  — the twin orbs of which, at that moment, were on prominent display beneath her flimsy cotton nurse’s uniform. Ignoring Biff, Cherie continued to rummage in the cabinet.

 

The guards at the prison had lately taken to selling the infirmary’s drugs to the cons for pocket money: something that made Cherie’s work occasionally difficult.

"It’s so unprofessional," thought Cherie.  “Just when you need something, you find out it’s gone."

Cherie explored the depleted inventory that had once been the infirmary’s well-stocked medicine cabinet, pushing aside, in the process, her own ample supply of Estradiol Valerate and Progesterone.  As usual, Cherie emerged from her search dismayed.

 

“Oh great," Cherie groaned.  “First the Demerol disappears, then the Morphine, and now even the Tylenol’s gone! Biff, did you take the last of that too?" Cherie intoned, eyeing the burly lesbian guard accusingly.  “How can I be an angel of mercy when you and your friends keep taking all of my tools?"

 

Biff shifted her massive form uncomfortably and did her best to ignore Cherie’s question. Rather than answering, Biff opted to take another long draw on her Camel. Then, affecting an attitude of injured innocence, Biff responded, “You know I’m a degreed criminal science professional," Biff replied.  “I wouldn’t do nothin’ as unprofessional as that."  Hoping to change the subject, Biff then began humming “T for Texas," thinking that her accuser might be distracted by the bouncy C & W tune — one of Biff’s favorites.

 

“Hey, you like Ernest Tubb, honey?" Biff asked. “I got all his records."

 

Cherie ignored Biff’s question. She preferred Disco to the pervasive C & W that seemed to be the prison preference. Instead of pursuing the matter further with Biff, she shook out two aspirins from the green bottle and then poured some water into a paper cup. Cherie then popped both aspirins into her own mouth and chased them with water. Alejandro’s groaning had given her a splitting headache.

 

Her own medical problems attended to, Cherie then shook out two more tablets and refilled the cup for her patient

 

“Here, Alejandro. Bottoms up, honey! You just take a couple of these and I promise it won’t hurt so much. These little thingies are buffered. They shouldn’t hurt your tummy one bit. But even if they do, it serves you right! You boys in Block Seven are always playing such silly games."

 

Alejandro sat up to choke down the pills, swallowed some water, and then fell back onto the table, his eyes rolling in obvious pain.

 

“When’s the Warden coming back from that conference in Waco?" Biff asked, trying her best to make conversation with Cherie while simultaneously changing the subject from the missing Tylenol.  “I thought he was s’posed ta be back here yesterday."

 

“He stayed over to do some shopping,” Cherie smiled. “They have better malls in Waco than they do here.”

Cherie spoke about the Waco malls from experience. She was intimately familiar with all of the malls in West, and most of those in East, Texas. She’d given the Warden a long shopping list and particularly hoped that he would be returning from his trip with a lilac peignoir that she had picked out for herself from her latest Victoria’s Secret catalogue. But one could never be sure about the Warden. Cherie knew that his lingerie preferences ran to bullet bras and girdles and his favorite color was fire-engine red.

 

While waiting for the aspirin to take effect with Alejandro, Cherie took the opportunity to refresh her pulse points with a few liberal spritzes of Opium. Opium was Cherie’s favorite fragrance. She preferred it to the smell of denatured alcohol that ordinarily permeated the infirmary. It was also the closest thing to a real opiate left in the infirmary’s depleted medicine cabinet.

 

Biff sniffed the odor of the Opium, grunted approvingly, and then stubbed out the remains of her Camel on the infirmary’s tile floor. Meanwhile, Cherie – now suitably refreshed — removed a fistful of gauze from a plastic jar and began stuffing antiseptic-soaked wads of it into Alejandro’s wound.

 

Biff watched the process admiringly. “This little cunt’s pretty good at her work, “Biff mused. “I think she likes me. The next time the Warden’s gone, I may have to have a little chat with her.”

 

Cherie then raised one end of the examination table, ignored Alejandro’s answering wails, and began shimmying around the table with a roll of adhesive tape. Cherie wound the tape around Alejandro’s midsection and that seemed to stop most of his bleeding.

 

“There, sweetie! That ought to keep you safe and sound until Dr. Lumley comes in.”

 

Cherie eyed her finished work proudly, choosing to ignore a small red spot — slowly becoming larger — that stubbornly seeped through the gauze. “If Doc Lumley stayed sober last night, he ought to be in here to see you in a couple of hours. So stop worrying!”

 

Alejandro groaned gratefully.

 

“Take him away, Biff. But not back to Block Seven. Move him to the side room and let him get some sleep. The Doc will be all over me if Alejandro gets knifed again before he gets a chance to look at him.”

 

Biff nudged the still moaning Alejandro with her nightstick. “C’mon amigo. Time ta move!”

 

Alejandro struggled to his feet, his knees buckling as he slid off the table. Biff grabbed the con under his armpits and steered him to a wheelchair that Cherie had thoughtfully provided. At 6’ 1” and weighing 250 pounds, maneuvering the Mexican into the wheelchair was easy work for Biff. Biff hoped that this womanly display of strength and professionalism wasn’t lost on Cherie.

 

“See ya later, cupcake. Maybe we can talk a little bit more sometime soon,” Biff winked. Biff then took the opportunity to pinch Cherie’s left nipple between the ends of her stubby fingers. “Ha, ha! Titty twister!” Biff chuckled, hoping Cherie would appreciate her attentions.

 

“You quit that, Biff. It isn’t funny!” said Cherie, wincing uncomfortably at Biff’s touch.

 

“Sorry, baby. Just a little joke!” said Biff, not one bit unrepentant.

 

“Why does everyone have to twist my left nipple?” Cherie wondered to herself. “No one ever does that to my right one.” She continued to speculate on this strange phenomenon as Biff, somewhat chastened, turned and wheeled the now comatose Alejandro from the examination room.

 

“I guess it’s just all in a day’s work at West Texas Correctional,” Cherie sighed to herself as she rubbed her now-swollen left nipple. Then, seeing that Biff was finally gone, Cherie removed her latex gloves, opened her compact and, eyeing its mirror, deftly began retouching her mascara.