Would Ya? Should Ya? Could Ya?

That’s gross.  Do you talk to a lot of perverts?

You do what?  How about a date?

Oh my God!   Does your family know what you do?

I have the perfect fantasy for you: Lactation!

 Do you get a lot of fetish calls?  You know, I have this thing for feet.

More or less, these are some of the predictable reactions I get when revealing my avocation to the un-ordained. While some (including myself) might argue that phone sex has gone at least somewhat mainstream in recent years, it is still not a topic you want to be bringing up at cocktail parties. From the sincerely curious to the smugly judgmental to the stupidly horny, assumptions are going to be made. Not that I can complain too loudly.  I’ve surely been boorish, myself, a time or two (ok, maybe three or four) to make unfounded assumptions. Yet, having experienced these ignorance-based reactions first hand, I cannot help but cringe when pushed into a corner by the overly-meddlesome.

When I abandoned my dream of graduate school (just temporarily,momma, I promise) and left behind my burgeoning corporate career to do phone sex (say it isn’t so, you wretched, wanton girl), my sister, bless her beautiful heart and bourgeois tendencies, bought me a mug, which on the outside wryly asks the question, “I went to school for years to learn to do THIS?”  And, beloved sister of mine, I do cherish that mug. Notwithstanding my office supply fetish, it proudly sits–next to my Rolodex–the container-of-choice for my ink pens, letter opener, markers, nail files, orange sticks and sundry miscellanea. I cherish it because it reflects the reverent humor, easy flexibility, mutual validation, and even quirky spirituality that is so integral to whom I am and what I do both personally and professionally.

With the advent of the Internet and attendant proliferation of independent PSOs (phone sex operators), the definition of good Phone Sex has become increasingly subjective.  Simultaneously, as our world hyper-rapidly expanded, erotica and pornography flourished, and the division between fantasy and reality blurred.  Both a blessing and a curse, it can be quite exhilarating, yet, confusing and even a cause for dissent amongst its practitioners.  Some like it hot, some like it cold.  It’s that kind of thing.

(On a side note, I would think that–if nothing else–the very nature of this non-monogamous and inexhaustible Internet would be self-instructive: There REALLY is room for everybody. We have more than enough do-gooder types [You know the profile: The hypocrite who swears he is pure as the driven snow; yet, he only cums when fucking his wife by imagining her being raped by a double-shlonged reindeer.] doing their best to legislate, control, constrain, and restrict this last vestige of true freedom of expression. Just remember this: When we protect and champion each other, we protect and champion ourselves.)

Now, where were we? Oh, yes! So you’re in the mood for some wicked merrymaking.  You’ve checked out the bathroom wall at the corner gas station, and though you could swear it used to be right there above the condom dispenser, there is no graffiti, “For a good time call Cocksucker Cathy.”   With  that avenue close, you decide to take the leap and call a Phone Sex Operator!

You want Phone Sex and you want it NOW! You want it? We got it! Hot phone sex, fantasy phone sex, domination phone sex, kinky phone sex, dirty phone sex, role-play phone sex, nasty phone sex, erotic phone sex, humiliation phone sex, tease & denial phone sex.

Phone Sex! Phone Sex! Phone Sex! … and even more Phone Sex!

How do you possibly weed through it all? How do you find the perfect first connection in all of that clutter? Well, brother, quite frankly, you don’t. You just say eeny meeny miney moe and take that leap of faith. After all, brother, how hard art thou? I’m a firm believer in going by the seat of your pants (or crotch of your pants) when things just need to get done (or you need to get done).

Basically, you are entering a marketplace as a consumer.  Just like you might, time and again, visit the grocery store until you find the perfect cookie, you may have to shop for a while before you find, HER, the Phone Sex Chick that blows your mind and load like no other can.  While that can be a royal pain in the butt, I guarantee that — until you find her –you will have lots of dirty fun along the way.  It’s  sort of like dating. It will cost you the price of a few burgers and shakes, but who’s counting dollars & dimes when you’re stealing some kisses and even copping a few feels along the way?  And the pay off is that sooner or later you’re gonna get lucky!

Ho, ho, ho …  oh so fucking lucky.

Take my word on it.

xo, Angela

It’s no secret that I adore my clients.  Most of you have stood fast and true, and have always remained (for some reason) awestruck at the mayhem and mischief I create in our virtual phone sex fantasies.  Hey, that’s what I’m here for and, I’m very aware that you call me when you could have just as easily called someone else.   And you do call me… again and again and again.

Certainly, here and there, you stray.   But, hey!  If you can’t cheat on your Phone Sex Goddess (*rolling eyes*), what would this world be coming to?  It is a man’s nature, after all, to sniff around … a genetic flaw of sorts.  You just can’t help yourselves.  The salient fact is that most of you (not all of you — I can only be so awesome, after all *wink*) scurry right back, seeking both absolution and asylum within the folds of my skirt.

Still … wherever thou dost ramble, with whomsoever thou dost rollick, whatever mischief with which you find yourself otherwise occupied, you still keep me posted.  A quick call, an email, a nice 5 star review or even a few words here at this blog.  Do NOT EVER think I don’t notice, because I certainly do.  Even when I’m lost in Phone Sex Diva self-absorption (blame it on the Leo in me) I always feel indulged by you:

PQS sends me his favorite “Best of Bad Writing” from the Bulwer-Lytton website:

“As the young officer studied the oak door, he was reminded of his girlfriend — for she was also slightly unhinged, occasionally sticky, and responded well to being stripped and given a light oiling.”

(to which he added:  hahahahahahaha)

And did you happen to catch is ode to me/homage to Poe here at Zen on Halloween?  He’s so fuckin’ smart:

T’was on Halloween it seeming, then did I, perchance, while dreaming
Come to view on my screen gleaming, tangled, tortured lines of woe!
As I read them, my mind streaming, horrors from a night’s bad dreaming
Assaulted me, like bat wings teeming! Anguished lines from E. A. Poe
“It must be Angie,” thought I musing, “posting rhymes from E. A. Poe!”
“Insight from a talking crow!”

But then thought I, my spirit keening, perhaps there is a hidden meaning,
A runic message intervening, buried midst this tale of woe.
But finding none, I vaguely wondered, could it be poor Poe had blundered?
What’s the chance, one in a hundred, that man could banter with a crow?
Trading anecdotes and wisdom, wisdom with a coal-black crow?
T’is unlikely, that I know.
HDB, with his signature rat-a-tat delivery,  always follows up our kinky conversations with a generous gratuity and “Thank You” email:

1. “Catatonic and it’s all your fault.”
2. “Toes curled on that one.”
3. “Can’t move. Happy boy.”

… and always 5 star reviews that go something like this:

***Pop. Sizzle. Pow. Angela rocks the stratosphere and every man in it.

… and sometimes a funny quote two:

“I haven’t left my house in days.
I watch the news channels incessantly.
All the news stories are about the election;
All the commercials are for Viagra and Cialis.
Election  –  erection  –  election  –  erection.
Either way we’re getting fucked! ~ Bette Midler.”

The Prof? He’s always short & sweet & to the point and ever so charming:

Oh lovely wonderful you.  Off to buy paint, grocery shop, etc. but ONLY thinking of you.

and consistently, creatively smitten:

Your personality is …  eclectic, electric, esoteric, erudite, epiphonous … erotic, enigmatic, elegant … so many e’s, so little time … and that’s just one letter of our elegant English.  love from The Prof, whose middle name starts with e.

Then there’s my cherished Little N:

Dear Angela,

I’m not writing this note to tell you that I adore you (you know that already) that I admire the imagination and dedication you put into what you do (you know that already) or that I consider the fantasies you weave for me so skillfully to be like healing balm on my deepest desires and aches. No, telling you that might be tainted with horny-ness and that joyous tingle that spreads through my body whenever I start talking with you.

I’m writing this note to tell you that I occasionally just plain and simple need to talk with you just about anything, and to hear your voice and laughter and share the details of my travails as you do with yours. I’m writing to tell you that I simply love talking with you, because you have a gift for making me feel human and capable and resilient.

Somehow, after a friendly chat with you I feel that those things that bothered me are not insurmountable after all. And when that’s coming from the very talented lady who knows my deepest and most convoluted fantasies, the patient lady who has experienced my soul more emotionally naked than any other woman on earth, life does feel better and less difficult.

Please rest assured – this is not a fantasy-sex-fueled infatuation, this is pure gratitude. Gratitude with a capital G. To be able to speak with a grown-up, in depth, with nothing held back, is not only a rare pleasure, but something that as adults, we should have the luck to experience with at least one person on this earth. And if we do experience this great pleasure, we need to take a deep breath, let the blessed oxygen molecules have the time to enter every dusty brain cell, exhale slowly and say: thank you. Thank you for the pleasure of knowing a tiny bit of you, thank you for our time on the phone, this time for just a casual chat, shooting the breeze, and thank you for your time and your ear.

Oh, and lest I forget, let me say this, and how do I phrase this delicately?- When we get down and dirty and nasty and you deftly interpret and delicately flesh out one of my fantasies and run it through me, my cock overflows and shoots big gobs of thick come in heart-stopping intensity. You make me jerk off and come like no one else. And you heal me. You heal me. Until I come back for my sweet medicine again, to my fantasies where all aches are healed and all cravings are satiated, to that place where you reign supreme, like a wise Empress. Because there is no one quite as good and unique and wickedly creative and artful and understanding as you.

You are awesome, babe. Just sayin’.

Yours, Little N.

A smattering of phone sex reviews (because, believe it baby, I DELIVER a 5 STAR Phone Sex Experience:

• Thank You so much, Mistress Angela! I do adore You .. and I do belong to You!
• Absolutely amazing. Really takes the time to dig into what makes your fantasy great and goes crazy with it.
• Angela, you are amazing. You took my few whispered sentences, and built an amazing fantasy around it. You are understanding, patient, and have an amazing memory when it comes to people’s shifting likes and dislikes. Thank you!
• One you go Angela, everyone else is jut plain vanilla.
• I gave Angela the set up, and she picked everything up quickly to give me a pitch-perfect rendition of my own little deviant fantasy. Great call!!
• Its a bUmPy ride 🙂
• as always, mind and load blowing – truly a thinking man’s siren, ASL is not satisfied with you wrecking your vessel on the stony shore, you’ll drive your boat full steam ahead and enjoy every bit of the tumultuous landing

So, yeah, I’m paying attention and lovin’ you guys to pieces.

xo, Angela

*** FYI: I have been trying to be available for calls as much as possible, but having picked up three tutoring gigs (parents panicking as finals loom) while redesigning my NiteFlirt pages (hoping to have everything done by the first of December, but that remains to be seen) and preparing to revamp this blog and my other Phone Sex Websites — well, I’m up to my nose in busy, busy busy.  Of course, I’m not complaining as hyper-activity does keep my Nipples hard.   Obviously all this activity is interfering with my blogging, but I will strive to be more consistent.  Be patient with me and watch for lotsa positive and naughty changes early into the New Year.  xoxoxo

Oh the Slings & Arrows …… of a mother effin Bitch Boy.

If you’re the sort who appreciates a bit of alliteration, we could call this particular rant post “The Incredible Case of the Curiously Obtuse Cretin.”  If we’re talking in soundbites, then our title might well be  “When Good Phone Sex Goes Wrong.”  Either way, in the instance of  FemDom Phone Sex, if something goes wrong, the caller is by default fully & inexcusably culpable.  Even though I did know better.

I knew better than he did — I did, I did, I did — that there was absolutely no way in hell a conversation betwixt the two of us could provide the “happy ending” he was seeking — the Utopian Sexual Nirvana he was hunting down like the Holy Grail, The Lost City of Atlantis, the mother-fucking Golden Fleece, Shangri-La, The Arc of the Covenant.   He was Ponce de León, looking for the goddamn Fountain of Youth (who thought, BTW, it would cure his impotence … oh the irony).  Looking for a long, long time … call after call, girl after girl. I know this, because he told me so.  And because I happen to have Super Powers.

I tried to tell him; really, really I did. Because I did know better than he did.  My spank-dar, which is hardly ever wrong, was screeching Danger, Will Robinson, um, I mean Ms. Angela. Danger.  (I said “hardly ever” not “never ever” wrong.  There’s going to be some problems when you buy your parts from a 20th Century Fox back lot fire sale.)

And it is, after all, right there in the sidebar (Quick Start Guidelines) on page 4 of  “The Phone Sex Operator’s Official Handbook” that I am going to write by the end of the year might get around to writing someday: #17. NEVER trust the words of a man with an erect penis in his fist.   His palms are sweaty and he can’t help but be one oily son-of-a-bitch.

Unfortunately, against all my better instincts and despite the creep creep creep of my trusty smarm-o-meter, I swallowed his bullshit, smooth lies and bracing promises, finally agreeing to do a Fantasy Phone Sex call with him.  Of course it didn’t work out and Mr. Smarm has nobody to blame but himself.  I told him the truth and he insisted on telling me different.

So let’s start with the email I received post-call.  In fact, so post-call that it was TWO WEEKS after our Role Play Fantasy via the phone when I finally heard from Mr. Smarm.  Don’t worry; by the end this will all make sense.  Of course, I could be wrong, and I’m sure if you had the chance to ask Mr. Smarm, he’d be the first to tell you so.  But this is MY blog and we’re not asking Mr. Smarm a damn thing.

Mr. Smarm’s email to me:

Hey Angela:

Thought I’d take the time to comment on our last conversation…

Well, I would be lying if I said that I was satisfied. It seemed that I caught you at a bad time and you really weren’t focused on our session. Also, I think that you [were] somewhat intimidated by me, and I really wish that wasn’t the case. I mean, I think that you felt like you had [to] think up something “extravagant” for me, but believe me – you don’t have to.

I wouldn’t mind giving it one more try, but I would like to catch you in a more relaxed/focused mood, so you can do your best work (and I know that you have an excellent imagination).

Mr. Smarm

So I guess the question is …

…  does Mr. Smarm deserve a response?  My usual policy when dealing with numbskulls is very simple:  Don’t.

The thing is that despite the fact that two weeks had passed, despite the abrupt end to the call, despite the absence of a gentlemanly follow up email, I was actually glad to see Mr. Smarm’s (TWO WEEKS LATE) email.  Because even the day of “the call” I’d given him the benefit of the doubt, allowing that there may have some glitch that disconnected us.  After all we’d already talked forty minutes at that point.  I mean, who stays on the phone for that length of time if they aren’t having fun, right?  And the platform I utilize for my calls had been experiencing some recurring issues.  So, yes, I was glad.  Until I opened and read his email, that is.

So …

I was glad, I was sad, and then I was mad.

Conclusion?  No way in hell does this jerk deserve another moment of my once undivided attention and always valuable time.  I adhere to the Fool Me Once, Twice Doctrine.  Logical and less messy.  Therefore, I will not be sending a return email to Mr. Smarm.  Unfortunately for you, I already wrote my response.

I’m sure you won’t mind:

Dear Mr. Smarm:

I was quite delighted today to see your email in my inbox.  That is until I opened and read it.   Of course, when I read your email, I went from pleasure to hurt in a heartbeat.

 Now I am fucking pissed.

Because I poured my heart and soul into that fantasy. Once we were off and running, the world around me dissolved into that office where I — and eventually Jennifer (remember the receptionist?) — accused you, abused you and used you.

And I did one helluva job.

Yes, at first, I was nervous, even a bit reluctant. Because, whenever a phone sex caller starts the conversation with, “I’ve experimented with phone sex for years and most girls just can’t get it right” … well, it just doesn’t bode well.

… at your urging, I DID RELAX and took a leap of faith that you were true blue and meant what you said.  Obviously — as we now know two weeks too late later — you aren’t and you didn’t.

Otherwise, you would have taken that leap with me and enjoyed the flight. You would have appreciated the rich details and well-drawn setting into which I grounded the fantasy (the picture window from my office; your desk right outside my door; my pencil skirt, sheer black stockings and garters juxtaposed against barely legal Jennifer’s sundress and wedge heels). You would have been savvy enough to realize that this girl on the other side of the phone was having the time of her life.   That she was firing on all pistons, creating our own special world and having a fucking blast doing it.

And, by the way, you should have answered truthfully when I took those moments during the call to pause and ask if the direction I was taking was doing it for you.  Instead you lied.  And now look where we are.

As for your statement that “I think that you felt like you had to think up something “extravagant” for me …”  Huh?  What? Do you not get what I do? Have you not read my FREE Phone Sex Preview Stories? There’s plenty of samples of my work, so that New Callers know exactly what I’m about.  Unlike you, I don’t pull any punches.

 Have you ever entertained the possibility, Sir Pants-Down-a-Lot, that the problem lies with you and not me?  After all, you’re the one who’s spent a little bit less than a lifetime looking for the perfect Phone Fuck.  It has been said of me, “The way she riffs on matters sexual and otherwise, she is my white Billie Holiday, a 21st century Anais Nin with just a touch of Machiavelli.”  I could quote caller after caller, but you can read all of my Phone Sex Reviews — at your leisure, of course, when you’re taking a break from your great and almighty Phone Sex Fantasy Crusade.

I think you’re confusing “extravagance” with “virtuosity.”

And Haven’t you still been on the prowl, trying out another and another and yet another Phone Sex Girl, still looking for your Phone Sex Fix these past two weeks?   Never mind, don’t answer that.  I already know you were.  I know it for a FACT.  Remember, I have Super Powers.

I dunno, maybe you had a PSO some years ago that rocked your world and the rest of us simply pale in comparison. Maybe we’re all inept and you’re just a customer getting poor service from every single one of us.  It must be a tough to be a Martyr for Phone Sex, traversing the minefield of Broken Wet Dreams.

The bottom line is that I have no desire to ever speak with you again. I gave you everything I had and you trashed it.  The coup de grâce is that you actually have the balls to say that you “wouldn’t mind giving it one more try.”  Are you demented or delusional?   Which is it?

Never mind, because guess what.  I would mind.  I would mind it very much.  I’d rather spend my time with the myriad men who find me creative and perfect just the way I am.

Angela

We now return to our regularly scheduled perversion.  If you’ve lost your remote, it might be between the couch cushions or just look right here.

Whew! I don’t know about you guys, but I need a drink of water after all that.  Maybe even a Xanax.

And why is that song banging around in my head?  Oh no I’ve said too much, I haven’t said enough … tra la la.   That’s me in the corner, that’s me in the spotlight.  Losing my religion … tra la la.