My sweet sister, Bethany, as I’ve oft mentioned, forwards me zillions of emails she receives inter/intra office.  Because, I guess, that’s what all the people with vanilla jobs do with their time on the company clock.

(Except the sneaky guys holing up behind their office door or inside a bathroom stall to call me for a bout of dirty, nasty PhoneSex.  You know who you are.  No sense blushing!  Or stuttering.  Or hiding behind that Wall Street Journal.  I’ve got your number.  Oh, I forgot.  I don’t have your number.  You have have my number.  *wink* ) 

Anyway, I thought this was awesome-cute and am passing it along:

GREAT TRUTHS THAT LITTLE CHILDREN HAVE LEARNED:

1) No matter how hard you try, you can’t baptize cats..
2) When your Mum is mad at your Dad, don’t let her brush your hair.
3) If your sister hits you, don’t hit her back. They always catch the second person.
4) Never ask your 3-year old brother to hold a tomato.
5) You can’t trust dogs to watch your food.
6) Don’t sneeze when someone is cutting your hair.
7) Never hold a Dust-Buster and a cat at the same time.
8) You can’t hide a piece of broccoli in a glass of milk.
9) Don’t wear polka-dot underwear under white shorts.
10) The best place to be when you’re sad is Grandma’s lap.

GREAT TRUTHS THAT ADULTS HAVE LEARNED:

1) Raising teenagers is like nailing jelly to a tree.
2) Wrinkles don’t hurt.
3) Families are like fudge…mostly sweet, with a few nuts
4) Today’s mighty oak is just yesterday’s nut that held its ground..
5) Laughing is good exercise. It’s like jogging on the inside.
6) Middle age is when you choose your cereal for the fiber, not the toy.

GREAT TRUTHS ABOUT GROWING OLD

1) Growing old is mandatory; growing up is optional..
2) Forget the health food. I need all the preservatives I can get.
3) When you fall down, you wonder what else you can do while you’re down there.
4) You’re getting old when you get the same sensation from a rocking chair that you once got from a roller coaster.
5) It’s frustrating when you know all the answers but nobody bothers to ask you the questions.
6) Time may be a great healer, but it’s a lousy beautician
7) Wisdom comes with age, but sometimes age comes alone.

THE FOUR STAGES OF LIFE:

1) You believe in Santa Claus.
2) You don’t believe in Santa Claus.
3) You are Santa Claus.
4) You look like Santa Claus.

SUCCESS:

At age 4 success is . . . . not piddling in your pants.
At age 12 success is .. . . having friends.
At age 17 success is . . . having a driver’s license.
At age 35 success is .. . . having money.
At age 50 success is . . .. having money.
At age 70 success is . . . having a drivers license.
At age 75 success is .. . . having friends.
At age 80 success is . .. . not piddling in your pants.

________________________

Hope you enjoyed.  And I am available for Phone Sex Calls this evening.  But don’t expect me to be as cute and nice as the above.  I’m thinking more along the lines of some serious fetish or kink.  Maybe a Cuckold Call or two?  Or some serious BDSM?  At least a bit of Cross-Dressing or Forced Bi?

When I flippantly posted He Who Should Be Cuckolded recently, I thought I was done with it.  But then these certain entities just kept bugging me, getting in my way and/or causing me a bit of personal disharmony of sorts … and now I’m at it again.  What can I say?  You just can’t keep a good woman down.

But just how do you cuckold a consortium, a system, a cartel, a passel?  Fuck if I know.  When did I ever claim to be a non-linear dynamics theorist?  I’m just your every day, garden variety FemDom Phone Goddess.   I deal in kinky phone fantasies and impossible dreams.  That being noted, I’m certainly not going to let a little thing like inexecutability stop me.   In fact, in MY WORLD — where fourth walls are breakable and all boys are doable —  absolutely nothing is out of bounds or unattainable.   So, yeah, I’m going to cuckold these heartless –heartless to the core — scoundrels.

I’m going to cuckold these "theys" because they haven’t earned my fidelity.  Because, in fact, they’ve disrespected me (and most likely you … so be careful of who you let fuck you) and are generally morally corrupt and ethically underhanded.  Shame.  Shame.  Shame on them!

Let me state this clearly:  All spammers should be cuckolded.  No exceptions, no excuses.  Too lazy and too stupid to get a real job or start a legit business, they sit in front of their PCs pushing automated buttons.  I guess this is their idea of industrious ingenuity,  this is their definition of a meaningful vocation.  The spam they continually spit into cyberspace isn’t even directed.  I don’t have a Bank of America Account, asshole.  So why would I want to update my info?   I don’t have a penis, so why would I want to enlarge it?  Their pathetic attempts to get my attention are analogous to getting a stiffy and humping my thigh, because they haven’t a clue as to how to please a woman.  Cuckold the motherfuckers?  You bet! 

And Comcast, how about if I bundle your corporate, punk ass?   Upsell, upsell, upsell.  Your marketing tactics (snail mail, email, door-to-door, telemarketing — and whatever else the sterile boys in plastics suits come up with) are not aggressive genius; they are belligerent and abusive to the buying public.  And sneaking a movie channel in with a Sports Tier package?  Criminal.  You have no shame and should not only be cuckolded but forced into permanent chastity.  It’s time for you to take the ass-fucking, instead of bending over your customers.

In case you didn’t know, Wal-Mart is EVIL.  Trey Parker and Matt Stone know it.  Kenneth J. Harvey blogs about it.  Jim Wier basically told Wal-Mart to fuck off.   And you really should see the Robert Greenwood Film, WALMART: The High Cost of Low Price.  I’ve never stepped into a Wal-Mart store and never will.  I’d rather pay more, than save a little or even a lot — than spend my consumer dollars with a company who uses foreign sweatshop labor, forces employees into unpaid overtime, and provides such shoddy health care that its employees are forced to rely on medicaid supplements.  Cuckold and sterilize the bastards.  Otherwise they’ll continue to fuck like bunnies, continuing their rampant and destructive propagation.

Note to The Faithful Word Baptist Church:  Your pastor is a wackjob.  His words are poison, his agenda — that of a narcissistic, self-serving zealot. GET RID OF HIM.   True persons of God (Think:  Mother Theresa, Gandhi,  Buddha.  Think:  JESUS) do not promote hatred.  When the title of any preacher’s sermons starts with Why I Hate … you got trouble.  Big trouble.  And until you get smart and expel this jerk, send him packing, bounce his venom-spewing ass … well, I’m just going have to cuckold you as a matter or principle.   Because right now?  You’re bending over and don’t even know it.  You’re the congregation.  You’re the boss.  Fire that lowlife and get on with the business of really serving God.

And that will be enough for now.  I’m depleted, my rant is done.  Cuckolding pluralities, it turns out, takes time, effort and a whole lot of energy.  I’m going to take my tongue out of my cheek now and settle in to watch The Day the Earth Stood Still.  Maybe I’ll order in a Pizza.  No fluffers, no cuckolds, no lovers, no sex of any kind.  Just dinner and a movie.  Who da thunk it?  That a Cuckold Phone Sex Goddess would be doing that on a Sunday night?

xo, Angela

The Cuckold Movie:  The Cuckold

A Cuckold Story by me:  Benchwarmer

Another Cuckold Story by me:  Pussy Whipped Cuckold

Cuckold Phone Sex:  WITH A  REAL HOUSEWIFE

Cuckold Phone Sex:  FANTASY & ROLE PLAY with ME!

Well, it did.  And you just know I’m going to tell you all about it, don’t you?  Which means it’s time to tell you about Jewboy.  Don’t get all politically correct on me, because he calls me the Little Shiksa.  A few of you know about him, but most don’t.  So let’s get to it, because he is part of this Valentine Story.

JewBoy is kinda-sorta my signicant other — just not too significant.  It’s my fault, not his.  He’s cute as a button, kinda geeky (which always gets me hot … so much fun to corrupt a nerd), sweet-natured and he would love to take our "relationship" to the next level.  I’m just not into heavy duty togetherness and all the work that goes into putting yourself on the line like that.  So we date here and there and I keep him at arms length … where he’s easy to handle.  And where I can live out in real life my FemDom Tease and Denial games. 

Hey, it works for me.  He’s handy candy, if you know what I mean.  And if you don’t?  Well, don’t expect me to go into a deep explanation.  But the weird thing about me and guys  — anybody I date — is that while I refuse to get really serious with anyone, at the same time,  I really do believe in love … romance, hearts & flowers, Valentine’s Day, MARRIAGE AND BABIES, kisses, hand-holding.  I mean, at least the idea of Happily Ever After seduces me.  But only for a while.  I don’t know.  Maybe it’s boredom, maybe I’m just a fickle bitch, or maybe the guys with whom I get involved turn out to be not so very much Prince Charmings.  Thus, numerous broken engagements at my relatively young age.

And I’ve explained this to JewBoy.  Although he rarely sees me and I often don’t take his calls, he buys the entire package that I am — lopsided ribbon and all.   I’m the first to admit my Girl-Boy games are quite selfish and that giving (in relationships) isn’t currently something I can do well.  But this is real life and it’s all I’ve got, at least for now.  So if a guy is interested he’s either got to take what I’m dishing out or get really sick of the menu and tell me to fuck off.  Interestingly enough — and much more than you would guess — the guy takes it.

So JewBoy wanted to do the Valentine thing.  He sent me flowers (sneaking in a couple of roses when he knows I prefer carnations, but that was forgivable enough), the accompanying card  tip-toeing around the L Word.  Because he knows better and because if he had been overly mushy I probably wouldn’t have taken his calls for another three or four weeks.  And he was hoping for a romantic Valentine dinner.  Which does appeal to my romantic side and I really am not heartless.  So I thought about it, I really did.

BUT … what I really really really wanted to do for Valentine’s day was Phone Sex.   Phone Sex with you and you and you and you.  FemDom Phone sex preferably, but a healthy dollop of perverse and kinky Phone Sex Chat would have been totally acceptable and most certainly a very good thing.  I do, after all, have a wicked imagination and take immense pleasure in weaving dirty stories about dirty boys doing dirty things.  I had plans to run some sort of Valentine Special and just make it a fun day with my callers.  So I politely and delicately (I really am fond of him and never ever want to hurt him) declined JewBoy’s date request, promising we would do the dinner thing soon after the big day.

UNFORTUNATELY …  Can you believe it?  I got sick with what I think was the flu.  I was miserable enough for it to be the flu.  So I went to my doctor on Monday, only by then I was already starting to get better.  No good drugs, but lots of blood tests since this is my second round of illness this year and she wanted to make sure that nothing more sinister is going on.  I am pretty much fine now, so the the visit was a waste of time and money.  But like I said, not even any good drugs from the visit. 

So guys (and JewBoy where ever you are):  Sorry about that.  I hated that I was sick.  I hated drinking the Thera-Flu.  I hated the fever and chills taking alternate and seemingly ceaseless swipes at me.  I hated my disinterest in CNN or even a good movie.  I hated reading a book and having to reread each and every paragraph because I was just too damn sick to pay attention.  I hated disappointing JewBoy.  But, most of all, I hated not being able to throw one hell-of-a rip-roaring Phone Sex party for one and all.

So here’s the deal.  I’m almost totally better; in fact, I even worked today.  I will be working the rest of the week at least eight hour each day.  I’m NOT promising what hours as I have real life responsibilities I need to work around.  But you will get at least eight hours from me, so keep checking.

In the meantime, I’m working on a very special project for THE GOOD GUYS.  And you know who you are, so be watching.

xo, Angela

_______________________

Phone Sex Quote of the day from Mr./Ms. J who made my day when he/she said:  You’re what I would call a modern Phone Sex Operator.  You actually have ethics and stick to them. 

_______________________

Best Valentine Gift:  Thank you Mr. W for the licorice.  You know it’s my favorite and I can hardly stop eating it.  Yum Yum Yum!

_______________________

Second Best Valentine Gift:  Thank you, YouKnowWho, for the Feng Shoe book — the little high-heel book mark is just too cute.  And the card?  Soooo me.  KIssssss.

So I finally saw my doctor Monday.  I wasn’t getting better — could barely talk, kinda-sorta sounded like Lauren Bacall.  And while some of you would find this incredibly sexy, most wouldn’t — thus, still not doing regular calls.  Anyway, I sounded so very bad when I called in the a.m., that the receptionist squeezed me in for an appointment that very day. 

So a few hours later I’m sitting up on that little table while the doc does her thing and gives me the dope.  Seems there’s a "bug" going around that just "holds on forever," and being viral in cause, it doesn’t respond to antibiotics.  But since I’d had this for two plus weeks, she decided I might have a secondary infection, compounded by stressed vocal cords from the exuberant coughing.  So she prescribed doxycycline hyclate and prednisone respectively.  I’m into the middle of my third day and things do seem to be clearing up.

In the meantime, when I’ve been feeling "up to it," I’ve taken a few short calls.  Those would be with guys who know I’ve been pretty sick and just want to kinda-sorta talk.  And don’t even want a kinky phone sex experience.  Imagine that!. 

Sweet Mr. Nerd would be one of those guys.  Being the sweet man he is, he indulged and coddled and commiserated — while I hacked and screeched and whined and pouted.  But, alas, all good things must come to and end.  And I suspect that in this case it was none too soon for Mr. Nerd.  So we’re winding down and he asks. "So what are your plans this week, dear Angela?"  I tell him that not much is going on except me drinking lots of fluids, eating even more chicken soup (thanks for the tidings and counsel, LUSCIOUS ONE) and religiously hunching over my  Vicks Personal Steam Inhaler.  Which I usually do while watching TV (very scary … this lowest common denominator ruling the airwaves).  Which reminds me … oh, and that I’m looking forward to seeing Sarah Palin interviewed on Larry King.

Ever benign and tender with my feelings, Mr. Nerd doesn’t tell me that it pains him to find the daily routine of his Phone Sex Goddess has been reduced to the hum drum.  He doesn’t tell me it saddens his heart (and perhaps softens his cock) that — forced by the necessity of illness — the highlight of my week just might be watching CNN. 

But he also happens to be a man of exceptional wit. 

So, without missing a beat, with nary a millisecond of hesitation, he answers (with tongue placed firmly in cheek): 

Goshhhh.  I hope she’s wearing leather.

Which just tickled my funny bone.  Because, between you and me, Mr. Nerd could care less what a gal is wearing.  He needs no paraphernelia, no idee fixes — leather, feathers, fishnet or otherwise — to be extremely hot and always sexy.   Thanks, Mr. Nerd, for being a stand up guy.  And standing by.  I owe you.

xo, Angela

… oh, and I may be able to work tomorrow.  Not sure yet, but I am starting to feel better and sound better.  So maybe … just maybe.

Can fetishes be wicked? I certainly hope so.  Isn’t the inherent wickedness associated with a fetish what makes it feel so damn good?  The business of Phone Sex and FemDom Phone Sex and Kinky Phone Sex is more or less fetish-oriented and fetish-inspired.  So it stands to reason I would be a big believer in fetish.  I mean, after all, it’s my bread and butter.

Even so,  I would argue that there is a "good" kind of wicked and a "bad" kind of wicked when talking about fetish.  Good wicked is something I believe in, promote whole-heartedly and stand behind with a bit of professional integrity and a bunch of personal enthusiasm. It’s a time-out for good boys and girls, a time out to be dirty and nasty, as bad as you want to be … just for a little while.  I say, have at it boys and girls:  Don those plastic pants, lick those steel stilettos, insert that rectal thermometer, sniff those panties, lace up that corset, rub your face into those PVC-covered breasts, drag that stiff prick along the seams of those cuban-heeled nylons.

BUT then there is the "bad" kind of wicked, which is when a fetish becomes too important — so much so that sexual excitement is not even possible without the fetish in play. I call it getting "fetished out," and I’ve actually seen this in action on more than one occasion.

Technically — or at least in the past — fetishes have always been attached to physical objects: high heels, balloons, leather, latex, feathers, stockings, panties, cigarettes, gloves. I’ve even heard of someone having a crayon fetish.  Fairly recently, the definition of "fetish" kind of naturally expanded to include non-tangible things that turn us on (i.e. specific phraseology, pornography, certain sexual positions, particular body parts, unusual sexual acts). One could be said to have a fetish for anal fisting or erotic hypnosis or for women of Asian ethnicity (aka Yellow Fever).  

There are even fetishes for what I do:  Narratophilia and Telephonicophilia.  And while I could, in my own interest, justify these as always "good" wicked fetishes, I wouldn’t.  Because, dear readers, callers and commenters and emailers, it is a matter of — as I said earlier — getting "fetished out."  So if you call me and it is your way of being good to yourself now and again, well I think would be a "good" fetish.  Then again, if you’re calling compulsively or putting at risk things and people who matter just to call me — oh, oh!  Not good and very possibly a "bad" fetish.

(And, before I go on, just let me say here — right up front — I never met a man with a shoe fetish (hopefully, a very bad shoe fetish) I didn’t like.  And I’d even consider marrying him if he promised to love, honor, obey and buy me shoes, shoes shoes … to my heart’s content.   *wink*)

Not surprisingly (consider this blog’s title), I believe that most people (men and women)  have some kind of kink that they are either secretly harboring or exercising at will, and I think most men have some type of fetish-y thing going on.  It might be something as mild as having one’s nipples teased or a thing for long hair. It could be seeing a woman dressed in leather or latex or sexy lingerie.  Or seeing a sultry MILF smoke.  Some fetishes are admittedly a bit off the beaten path, such as a Giantess Fetish (Macrophilia) or a Balloon Fetish (aficionados are referred to as "looners.")  And then there are the really "far out" fetishes such as mysophilia (being aroused by mud and filth) or necrophilia (yup, sex with the dead).

I think it’s fair to say that these days the words "kink" and "fetish" are used pretty much interchangeably.  The good thing about this is that the stigma once associated with fetishes has somewhat lost its sting.   With the Internet kinda-sorta shoving kink into the spotlight early on (see Vanilla Mythology, wherein I quoted a college student I was tutoring: These days, if you’re not kinky, people think you’re weird), fetishes have pretty much gotten the green light.

So just how does a  good fetish become a bad fetish?   I’m glad you asked.  And in answer,  I will tell you a little story:

Once upon a time in the not so distant past I worked for a Phone Sex company. It was their company, their rules.  Therefore, I was not Angela — no real names permitted in Fantasy Land.  But, if you called asking for Tori the Shemale or Cuckolding Maria or Goddess Diana or Lucinda the Slutty Divorcee or Innocent Annie or Lactating & Pregnant Hermaphrodite Felicity  or Humiliatrix Nadine — due to cutting-edge software — the dispatcher easily discerned that Angela was your girl and hooked us right up. 

There happened to be a gentlemen, whom we shall refer to as Mister Master, who called regularly to dominate my character, Submissive Sabrina.    Mister Master was quite interesting.  He’d spent quite a few years feeding his kink for dominating women and indulging his particular fetishes.  As an adolescent boy scout learning the Butterfly Knot and the Halyard Bend he was secretly imagining himself binding and gagging beautiful girls.  As a teenager he actually got to practice some rudimentary domination tactics with a few of his dates. 

He finally settled down and got married to a  young beauty (I saw her pics) and was delighted to find that his new wife was willing to play along.  Mr. Master considered himself very lucky that he was able to satisfy his any whim and basically gorged on a daily diet of kink and fetish.

Over time, Mr. Master’s fetishes became varied and many.  Red lipstick, sexy lingerie and fuck-me-pumps were soon de rigeur for any marital coquetry.  Then Mr. Master discovered ball gags … bright red ball gags.  And, oh, he liked them a lot.  After that came dildo gags, gags that caused drooling, inflatable gags … gags!  gags!  and more gags!

Because the gags made him so hot, Mr. Master decided he wanted to "hear" the Missus gag.  And so he would "throat fuck" her.  This would sometimes make her whimper, which made him even hotter.  He wanted more.  He wanted to make her whimper and beg and cry.  So he experimented with clothespins and nipple clamps.  Then paddles and whips and canes.

Then the matter of ropes became all-important and Mr. Master began suspending the Missus from banisters, then rafters, then even trees.  And this went on and on and on. 

Until …

(things start happening rather quickly here, so pay attention)

Mr. Master got gluttonous. Oh yes he did.

He was having such a good time with the always ready, willing and able Missus, that he decided two submissive women would surely be more fun than one and easily convinced the Missus to give it a try.  And, like the infinitely resourceful junkie who can be always get his next fix, Mr. Master soon found a couple willing to "play."  And so the twosome became a foursome.  Unfortunately, the foursome didn’t last so long.  Because — much to everyone’s surprise — the Missus ran off with the the Mister from the other couple.  Ouch! 

And Mr. Master became single again.  Single and kinky — seriously kinky.  He also happened to be — due to career requirements — living in a rather isolated part of the world.  Yes, there were women to date.  There just wasn’t the large and varied "assortment" he’d experienced his first time around.  So he dated.  He dated and danced and saw movies and went for walks and held hands.  He rented DVDs,  went down to the pond to feed the ducks, took moon-lit drives under star-filled skies. 

He did all that and all the other dating things people who are dating do.

Except fuck. 

Because Mr. Master — kinda-sorta living a dominant’s dream-come-true all those years — had forgotten the basics.  He’d forgotten how to fuck.  It just didn’t do anything for him. 

And thus, Mr. Master began calling me.  Or I should say Submissive Sabrina.  And the sweet and idolizing Submissive Sabrina would give Mr. Master exactly what he needed.  I’d groan and whimper and beg for mercy. I would describe my sexy black stockings and hot pink garter belt.  I’d hit my hot water bottle and tell him I was spanking my ass just for him.  I’d pretend to tie myself up according to his exact instructions.  I’d put my fist in my mouth and talk around it, telling him how bright red the ball gag was.  I’d jingle the old dog collar I kept in the bedstand  and tell him I was cuffing my ankles for him. 

Well, that was then and this is now.  Mr. Master is now my friend and knows the real deal.  When I started my own business, I fessed up.  He took it very well.  And Mr. Master is in love with a woman … has even moved into her place.  And he has gotten to the point where he can perform intercourse with her.  But he confides that he rarely orgasms with her and still begs to do "sex" calls with me.  "You’re the best.  You always were the best," he tells me over and over.

And I wasn’t even real.

So that is what I would call a WICKED FETISH GONE BAD.  i.e. Fetished Out

Wouldn’t you?

xo, Angela