Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
and never brought to mind ?
Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
And days o’ auld lang syne.

Despite my sassy and sometimes cocky demeanor, I do have my mushy side (leave the Bitch Slave Boys to their dreams) and Robert Burn’s song actually always causes the tears to well.  Even typing them here, the music and words ran through my head, then took a detour right straight to my heart.

I’m actually going to a party this evening, which should make your jaw drop, because New Year’s Eve with all its forced frivolity is something I normally and obstinately avoid.  Don’t worry–I won’t drink and drive.  And won’t even get drunk.  Maybe a slight buzz if the mood is right, but I do mean just right.

A fair to middling year as years go.  But I blogged and you showed up.  Some of you called and we explored your fantasies, some of you wrote emails to say hello or comment privately on a particular post, some of you commented here, some of you were silent…but I felt your presence.  

We started the year out with a (much celebrated) public lynching for chrizt’s sake.  It broke my heart.  And you understood. 

I got sidetracked with way too many projects and — for a while — didn’t blog as often as I should have (no new savants in 2007!  But I promise more in 2008) and you still showed up and I love you for it.

You sent me dirty pictures and I published two that I thought were super sexy here and here.  And everybody agreed with us whole-heartedly … proving that we do, indeed, know what is fucking hot! 

Our resident Pervert Savant kept us entertained with his very original and always hilarious installments of Lingerie on the Razor-Wire, 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!

We went to a wedding.  And I must say that you looked absolutely dapper, my darling. 

I shared with you the inter-office emails my sister, Bethany, forwarded to me — including God vs. Devil and What Men Do with Post-Its.

We went parochial and liked it so much we did it again. 

We got hot and bothered, down and dirty, all fired up, queer kinky and lesbian lovely.  It was downright decadent and we didn’t even have to wash out our mouths with soap afterwards.

Humiliation was the kink du jour, so I was in turn a Righteous Bitch, a Heartless Vamp, a Cuckolding Brat.  And then I laughed my ass off while you begged for mercy.  Admit it, you loved every minute of it.

I lamented and you held my hand.  I was tacky and you pretended to not notice.  I bragged about my this and that and you were happy for me. So I bragged some more and still you were happy for me.  I fucked off and you waited patiently.  I got on my soap box and you didn’t even roll your eyes.  I pontificated and you just smiled.  I bloviated and you acted like what I said mattered. I fucked around with everybody and anybody and you forgave me. Or maybe it’s just that you like to watch?

We read poetry.  We found some cuckold poetry.  And then there was the poem that made me cry the very first time read it.  And who can forget Shakespeare’s sonnets proving he was a pussy-whipped cuckold?

I kissed you.  It was very French.  Did you like it? 

I fell in love or lust  — or something in between —  over and over again …with Bitchy Jones  …with Supervert   …with Jerotic  …with Slip of a Girl  …with Sweat Shop Sissy  …with The Provocateur.

Did I say fair to middling?  On second thought, it was a simply lovely year.

xo, Angela 

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 

Love Sonnet XI

by Pablo Neruda 

I crave your mouth, your voice, your hair.
Silent and starving, I prowl through the streets.
Bread does not nourish me, dawn disrupts me, all day
I hunt for the liquid measure of your steps.

I hunger for your sleek laugh,
your hands the color of a savage harvest,
hunger for the pale stones of your fingernails,
I want to eat your skin like a whole almond.

I want to eat the sunbeam flaring in your lovely body,
the sovereign nose of your arrogant face,
I want to eat the fleeting shade of your lashes,

and I pace around hungry, sniffing the twilight,
hunting for you, for your hot heart,
like a puma in the barrens of Quitratue.

_____________________________________________

Many people tell me they just don't get poetry.  That it just takes too much work to understand.  I've never seen it that way and find poetry sometimes an even easier read than prose.  The above poem is an example of just how easy it can be.  A 1971 Nobel Prize winner for Literature, Chilean writer Pablo Neruda jumps hurdles of language, time, and even politics (he was a communist) to reach out and remind us that the truth of passion is timeless and constant.  Simply divine.

Learn more. 

Sixty Poems 

xo, Angela 

Some of you are surely familiar with Kinky Cards, which has been on the web for at least as long as I have … and who knows how much longer.  As you can see, I was the lucky recipient of one of their cards today, and — being totally unexpected — it really made my day.  (Thank you, Mr. D.)  

If you've been wanting to send a Christmas Greeting with just a bit of an edge to it, or maybe even a big edge, then you can't go wrong with Kinky Cards.  There is a generous selection of cards for every occasion, from Halloween to birthdays to Valentine's Day.  A fairly new and darling Vintage Collection features specific categories such as Lingerie, Voluptuous Vixens, Foreplay (very romantic and pretty), Corsets and Naughty Girls.  Even if you don't want to send a card, it is fun to look around.  Every time I visit I end up browsing the site.

So we're almost to the big day, huh?  Me?  I'm still wrapping and curling ribbon, but I can finally see the light at the end of the tunnel.  All the stuff I had to mail went out Wednesday and you don't even want to know what I spent on postage.  I thought I'd started early enough, but, alas, once again…here I am running around like a mad woman.  Next year, please remind me to start getting ready in July.  I think that is the only safe bet.

A Christmas Poem

'Twas The night before Christmas,
And all through the house,
Not a creature was stirring,
So I took their stereo.

Ten Reasons a Christmas Tree is Better Than a Woman

1. A Christmas tree doesn't care how many other Christmas trees you have had in the past.
2. Christmas trees don't get mad if you use exotic electrical devices.
3. A Christmas tree doesn't care if you have an artificial one in the closet.
4. A Christmas tree doesn't get mad if you break one of its balls.
5. You can feel a Christmas tree before you take it home.
6. A Christmas tree doesn't get mad if you look up underneath it.
7. When you are done with a Christmas tree you can throw it on the curb and have it hauled away.
8. A Christmas tree doesn't get jealous around other Christmas trees.
9. A Christmas tree doesn't care if you watch football all day.
10. A Christmas tree doesn't get mad if you tie it up and throw it in the back of your pickup truck..

xo, Angela