Author: camerynmoore

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phone sex and the suspension of disbelief


There's no fixed point for me to suspend my disbelief FROM!

I cannot say, with 100% certainty, whether most callers are telling the truth, when they tell what they do or have done.

There are some things that sound more extreme or unlikely than others—anything involving horses or donkeys, for example, is probably right out—but unless their stories involve shape-shifting, tentacles, space travel, or otherwise defying the laws of physics, I can't definitively rule out their veracity.

Now, I am certain that there are enough actual occurrences of quasi-consensual incest and horny German Shepherds and sure, why not, unprincipled babysitters and furtive adult-video-palace back rooms and BBC-themed parties complete with silver-spade anklet charms, that almost any of these scenarios are within the realm of possible. But since it doesn't matter whether the scenario is real, except in the case of underage kids and animals, I don't generally expend too much energy worrying about it. There may be tiny to medium-sized holes in the narrative, or little notes of costuming or language that are jarring, but my mind automatically glosses over these inconsistencies. I assume it's real, for the sake of entering into the spirit of the thing.

Occasionally, though, something pokes through a caller's supposedly true story, a detail so hilariously glaring and out of place that I'm just, like, oh, for fucks' sake, I can almost identify the porn site where you watched this. Especially when they take great pains to assure that everything they're about to say is Absolutely True and Real-Life.

My most recent encounter with this would be the fellow who wanted to talk about how he and his wife had been swingers for ages, and had started visiting the "BBC room" at some of the parties. Fine. That's fine. I don't doubt it. I'm sure such places exist. He went on to say that his wife had gotten a black lover, except he said "she has a BBC". If I took that literally, that would have jumped the rails over onto the black "she-male" track;  in the spirit with which he offered it—his wife has a boyfriend with a BBC—it's an incredibly objectifying construction, but I wouldn't put it past a white submissive entitled douchebag to think of his wife's African-American lover in that way.

"He's a real bull," the caller went on, showing how down with the jargon he is. "He's bringing his whole posse, I guess they call it, over tonight." And then he dropped the ball so thoroughly I couldn't recover. For the entire rest of the call I nearly had to laugh. "I love being a cuckold," he said, except he pronounced it "coo-cold". He had clearly never spoken the word out loud in an environment where anyone might correct him. He had clearly only ever read it.

"I love being a coo-cold."

I don't even know how to end this post. I'll just end it there.


CALL OF THE DAY: “Make me come” usually means the magic’s over


Oh, god, I'm not going to make it... IT'S HER FAULT!

There are many things I don't want to hear when doing a call. "Oh, whoops, I gotta go. <click>" "Uh... I think they sent the wrong girl." "You're sounding a little raspy today!" But the thing I NEVER want to hear... ugh. I heard it again tonight.

"Make me come."


I usually get it from mild-to-moderate douchebags who are drunk or coked-up and therefore underestimated the amount of time they would need to get off, i.e. ALL OF THE TIME AND IT STILL WOULDN'T BE ENOUGH. Extreme Top, the Dean of Douchebag U., often starts out his calls with it.

"Make me come." It is bad enough from assholes, because it tells me exactly how little they are thinking about their role in this encounter and how much they think I am to blame for their failure to launch. I am entirely to blame, apparently, even though I am nowhere near their dick. And an independent observer would notice how many times they flipped the scene, when they could have just sat with one or two shifts and let the momentum build. Or how many times they took a "bathroom break". (I'm looking at you, Extreme Top.)

So when these douchebags panic and say, "make me come", it is understandable, if not excusable. Last night, though, I got it from Bilingual Papi. And I thought, oh god. That's the end. Those words are the death knell of a GFE phone sex relationship. The underlying entitlement has finally poked through.

Because in GFEs, the caller is keeping up the fantasy that they love me and respect me and all that business with credit cards, that's just a side thing, peripheral, it has nothing to do with me or them. They get to imagine that I'm in it because I love them, too, and I will do anything to make them happy, for however long it takes, because I want to.

But the clock is alway ticking, on my side if not on theirs, and last night we were up to 12.5 minutes on Papi's usual 10-minute call, and even though I had given him the "come cue" at 8 minutes, and told him at 11 that I had to go—and he said "no, you don't"—I could tell he was nowhere near coming. I said again, I have to go, and when he protested, I flung it back in his face.

Why do you do this to me, Papi? You go over a lot, and I get into trouble.

"No, you don't," he said.

Yes, I do. I gritted my teeth. I love you, Papi, but I have to go.

And I went.

Second time I've ever hung up on a caller. But I had to go. I called the dispatcher immediately and let her know what happened. She said, "what an asshole", and told me not to worry about it, that I did the right thing. I wasn't so much worried about that; I just felt bad for hanging up on someone who I didn't think was actually a douchebag. But he was turning into one, by virtue of willfully ignoring the boundaries that were firmly in place, and I was turning into a sucker who would let him. I didn't want it to go any further; I had to take a stand. And so I hung up.

To my relief and surprise, this morning he was my first caller. And he had bought 15 minutes, AND he apologized, sincerely and repeatedly.


Boundaries, man. I don't really get to have them in phone sex at all, except the limits dictated by the company. So this was a happy ending.

My time is not my own


Some days I don't know where it goes...

It is easy to forget, after a few slow days on the lines, that time is not what I think it is. On some of those days, my own self-imposed deadlines may be few, so I'm really just farting around online. An incoming call may startle me, but it's actually a welcome interruption. So I do 10 minutes, or seven, and then roll back over and get back on Facebook and it's just la-di-da-di-da, what a low-paying but relaxed life. I have all this free time to do what I want.

But then a day comes along when I really am trying to do something I want, and the bubble bursts. Like yesterday, when I wanted to eat a delicious pancake breakfast with my lover and get ready in a leisurely fashion for a meet-up that I would have to leave the house for as soon as my shift was up. And then I got a 30-minute regular. And another one. My pancakes sat there congealing and the bacon got cold, and the call timer moved slowly while the real-world clock rushed on, and I knew that I was not only going to be a little late, but hella late for the Exploring Sexuality Book Club, and that's even before putting a dab of makeup on and finishing my bacon.

(Fuck the book club. Always finish bacon.)

Yesterday was the sort of day when I remember, sharply, that my time is not my own. It belongs to the company, and ultimately, the callers. My time belongs to the universe of phone-sex wankers. That time feels like an endless river sometimes; I mean, I can get a lot done on those slow days. Some days I can just keep dipping my cup and take out as much time as I need.

But I'm only borrowing it. I only get to use it if they're not using it. When I get a call, whatever time I've just scooped up has to get thrown back in the river. Whatever I was doing with that time—whether it's eating pancakes or talking to the bank or riding my way steadily to ecstasy on top of a lover—that gets thrown out the window.

I know these things. They are nothing new, merely the real-world results of going against the guidelines that all steady on-call PSOs know: no cooking anything that can't be safely and reasonably stopped mid-production; don't eat anything that is going to get worse from sitting out; time your bathroom breaks carefully; don't step outside or make a separate phone call without signing off, no matter how little time you think it is going to take.

I know, I know. This is the choice I made. But if I were to follow all those rules all the time that I'm on call—some days that's up to 16 or 18 hours—my life would become emotionally and culinarily untenable. So I run the risks, I push back against the rules on a regular basis. I borrow that time flagrantly, and hope it doesn't get called back in. I take showers with the phone sitting on the top of the toilet. I bake (today I'm making carrot cake). I fuck, occasionally with toys that are not easy to take out quickly. I make business calls on my other phone, always warning the other party that I might get a call and have to go.

And I make pancakes and bacon for Sunday breakfast, pretending like it's just a normal Sunday with my lover, pretending that the hairs in my ear are not all on edge the whole time, semi-sub-consciously waiting for the inevitable, waiting for the call to return this time that I borrowed.

It's not mine, but damn if I will not wring out every drop I can.

ASK A PHONE WHORE: How can you accept money for taking these terrible calls?

ASK A PHONE WHORE is a semi-regular feature, appearing whenever I get a good question. Anything you want to know about my phone work, ask away! Make sure to read through the archives here to see if I’ve already addressed your question in a previous post, or to see if I’ve written about something already and you have follow-up questions. I may set up a separate page here to solicit questions, or maybe just put a widget up, but for now I’ll be running my mail bag over on Facebook.

Q. How can you accept money for taking these terrible calls?

Yes. I'm paraphrasing slightly, but I fielded this question recently, and it was a first. Not the indignation, but the angle. The money, the transaction, seemed to be part of the problem.

PW Poster 3_sm(2)For context: the film Phone Whore, adapted from my stage play of the same name, is done. (You can see the trailer here.) I got to watch it with maybe 25 other people in a private pre-premiere screening this past weekend, and my director and I followed it up with a Q&A. That's the sort of event that might happen at a film festival, and we wanted to start getting ready for it.

So. There was a party of three sitting fairly central to the screen, and after the film I had to fight to keep the focus of the Q&A open to everyone, because that one table had so many questions, and most of them related to how that trio of viewers did not approve of how far we went in the film, in terms of portraying the kinds of calls that I get, and therefore were expressing outrage at the fact that in real life I do field those kinds of calls. The calls involving fantasies around illegal things. It felt as though they were trying to wrest an apology for me, or get me to defend my choice to take the challenging calls.

(Versus, I don't know, pass them on to other operators, or report them to the police? Yes, one of the audience members at that table said that was the right thing to do, and it was my moral responsibility.)

Thankfully, I've had a LOT of Q&A sessions to get good at this. I know when to answer and when to redirect, what kinds of clarifying questions to ask, when to get Socratic on their asses. And I think the viewer was frustrated and ended up casting around, trying to get a grip on what exactly she was objecting to. And that's what she came up with: how can I accept money for doing those calls involving acts that would be illegal if actually performed?

The answer for me is simple: it's a service, what I do. I should get paid for listening to strangers' fantasies.  Why does taking money make it a less valid or ethical option? Because you're profiting from encouraging these guys to talk about these things, I think was her response. Hard to tell. Her fluster and anxiety was rendering her a little incoherent toward the end.

The thing is—and here is my staircase wit—these guys have these fantasies already, with or without me. The only encouragement I'm giving them is that of a nonjudgmental ear. In our society, the way it is around sex and our sexual imaginations, that is an invaluable service. And yes, I asserted that service is worth money. Another member of that table then asked, very dismissively, "Would you do that for free?" The really taboo talk, he meant. And I said, yes, I already do for some people. He looked disgusted and sat back.

I'm not sure what that proved for him, but for me it underscored one thing: as long as those questions keep coming up in that way, then we still need to be having the conversations.

CALL OF THE DAY: making a meth user come

A new guy, but not a brand-new-to-the-company new guy, as I have cause to be grateful for when the dispatcher fills me in: he wants a party girl, "someone who does ice."

Does what?


What the... I don't... what does that even sound like?

"I don't know, I guess real wired? Here you go, 15 minutes!"

Eeep, wait!

Drug calls are rare for me to get, which is GREAT, because actually I am extremely naive when it comes to drug use and effects and side effects and adjusting the pace and energy of the call accordingly. Does the drug in question kill boners, like alcohol? Is it difficult-to-impossible to come under the influence, like cocaine? (I have reason to believe that Extreme Top is a coke-head.) I haven't had a lot of face-time (genital time?) with guys who are doing drugs to the point of being noticeably affected—I just don't run in those circles—but at least my dispatchers have dropped me hints here or there, so I've learned basic logistics over the years, things like giving the caller lots of time warnings, and preparing for the worse, i.e. they may not come before the end of the call and sometimes there's nothing you can do because BIOCHEMISTRY YOU STUPID FUCK.

But I still don't have a good sense of what the drugs FEEL like, you know, how I should be acting if I, too, am supposed to be getting high, so if the caller wants me to party with him, like this guy, I am totally making shit up.

"You like to party?"

Oh, yeah, yeah! I mean, if someone's got something, I'll do it!

"How do you do it?" (That's not what he said, I can't remember the word he used, but I got the sense of it. GAH! I am not hip to this jive! I am going to blow it! Please, please, can we just get to a blow job?)

Oh, I, uh... mostly I just smoke it. I had some friends over last night, I think we smoked most of it... but I have a half-glass of vodka left over by the bed! (Is this what party people do, drink whatever leftover alcohol is lying around? I imagine so. Whooo, party! Glass of vodka, so edgy!)

"Cool. I shoot up. I've got a whole [incomprehensible drug measure] right here, I wanna do it with you on the phone."

(Ulp.) Oh, huh, I've never, uh, shot up. (Fuck.) So, uh, what does that feel like? (I feel like I am so obviously fishing, but he doesn't get suspicious.)

"I get warm and buzzy all over, it just spreads, you know? And sometimes I can come without even touching my dick." (O-KAY, now that is useful information. Go slow and detailed, and prepare for possibility of early ending.)

Ooh, wow, that sounds amazing! Do it, I can't wait to give you a good fucking time!

I say it that way, but I'm hella nervous. I have never enjoyed hanging out with people whose chemical consumption puts them in a noticeably different headspace than my own. Even the easy-to-come-by stuff like pot or booze: if everyone's on it except me, I'm outta there pretty quickly. It's just too hard to connect, and I end up feeling like a stick in the mud. Injectables... this is a whole different category. Someone pushing drugs into their blood system via self-administered sharp object is operating with a level of ... desperation? dedication?... that I will never know. But here, right now, with a guy preparing to shoot up a whole gob of meth on the other end of the line—okay, I don't know how much, but it sounded like a lot—I gotta go with it.

I can hear it in his voice when the meth hits, and I let him take his time enjoying that initial rush. Then I offer the blow job, and go so so slow. I don't mean my voice is slow, I keep that fast and excited, keep that stream of talk flowing, he seems to like that, but the pace of the described action, oh, I spend a full minute talking about how my fingertips feel brushing along the inside of his thighs.

He talks to me a little, and I try to match his energy, but it feels fuzzy and blurred, he is crackling like a cloud of electricity, voice getting higher and faster, and when he comes—not too much before the end of his call, I am pleased that I managed the time correctly—his voice is practically sizzling through the phone line.

"I'm totally calling you again," he says over and over. I always take that with a grain of salt, especially with my drunk or high guys, but he remembers my name from 15 minutes before, which is a good sign.

I act excited, but I'm not. I really am naive. Drugs scare me.

ASK A PHONE WHORE: what are you wearing?

ASK A PHONE WHORE is a semi-regular feature, appearing whenever I get a good question. Anything you want to know about my phone work, ask away! Make sure to read through the archives here to see if I've already addressed your question in a previous post, or to see if I've written about something already and you have follow-up questions. I may set up a separate page here to solicit questions, or maybe just put a widget up, but for now I'll be running my mail bag over on Facebook.


My socks are soooo soft, mmmmm.....

Q. What are you wearing?

Like, actually wearing? T-shirt and pajama bottoms, straight up. If it's cold, I'll have on a hoodie and fuzzy socks. If it's hot, the only thing that'll be on is the ceiling fan. But mostly, T-shirt and pajama bottoms.

My clients ask that question, too, but the answer isn't always, or even mostly, what you'd think. I know, high heels and stockings and that whole thing, right? Nope. Not for me, mostly because of the persona I have. I'm a "mature woman", just that. I do a lot of different roles in that genre, but I'm supposed to be able to rock everything from strict teacher to inexperienced, slightly ditzy, "hang on, let me get the potatoes out of the oven" MILF. I'm not billed as a dominatrix or anything; I don't think my company specifically promotes any one operator. Generally, I think they put us out there as "real women".

So, when a client, especially a new one, asks what I'm wearing, I keep it "real": Oh, I'm just getting ready to do some errands/pick up the kids/see a friend on a coffee date. I'm wearing boots and a knee-length denim skirt, bra and panties. Haven't got on my sweater yet, but it's pretty low-cut. And... there you go. It's real enough for "real"—getting ready to go out, because I'm really real and I do real things out in the real world!—but still sexy, because I'm not all the way dressed yet.

Sometimes I'll "dress up" a little more, like if it's a cuckold call and I say I'm getting ready to go out. I'll mention that my husband picked out the short tight dress that I'm going out in. Other people have specific items they want to hear about, like the white sneakers or the white panties; these guys get special notes on their index cards, and if they ask, I know at least one piece of clothing for sure.

Occasionally I'll dress down for those few callers who, owing to the type of call and regularity of contact, get more of the "realness". Bilingual Papi is one such caller. Today he asked what I was wearing, and I mentally subtracted my worn-out pink kitty pajama pants and the non-matching navy blue hoodie and told him the rest: t-shirt and panties and fuzzy socks. That's pretty sexy, in the cute, baby-girl way that he usually likes.

"Really?" he asked.

Really, I said and immediately hedged, but you know I can put on anything else you'd like.

"No, fuck it," he said, "I would just want you to take all of it off anyway."

See, that's the thing. Eventually almost everyone imagines it all off. It's how I get there that's the trick. No, that's the fun part. How I figure out how to get there, that's the trick.

CALL OF THE DAY: being a good phone mommy


Lace 'em up for mommy...

I normally hate having to pry a scene out of a caller; it is such an unnecessary burden, especially when they have specific but changeable fantasies (see also Extreme Top). Fantasies are supposed to unfold magically, so questions and other verbal stabs in the dark, they just underscore the unalterable fact that I am not psychic. Unless you're shaking a gift-wrapped box from a lover, I don't think that making guesses is a particularly efficient way to, you know, move the sexy along.

Sometimes, though, the questioning actually works to my advantage. Like with this guy. He continues to be so quiet that he almost feels catatonic through the phone line. I can almost imagine him sitting on the edge of the bed cuddling his binkie so it covers his face. Because he is so childlike, the questions are easy. No open-ended questions for him. I need to offer him simple choices, appropriate for a three-year-old, that he can answer in a couple of words, choices like:

Do you want to go shopping this afternoon or stay in and watch TV?

He wants to go to the store, so I tell him maybe JC Penny's, and I'll let him push the cart.

"I want to watch you dress, Mommy," he says in one of his rare complete sentences, so I sit him on the edge of the bed, and tell him what I'm putting on, one piece of clothing at a time: panties, bra, jeans, a warm and fuzzy purple sweater...

Should I wear my white sneakers?

"Yes," he says with barely contained excitement. "I like your sneakers." I know you do, sweetie! You helped pick them out last summer, remember? They're very comfortable. They're my favorite shoes. I coach him into tying them, and then we go to the mall.

You like walking with Mommy, don't you?

"Yes," he says, very satisfied. I tell him I have to buy a couple of shirts and maybe a skirt and some new socks. When we get to the store, I show him a few tops.

Do you like the yellow one or the red one, with the buttons down the front?

He likes the red one, so I take that and the denim skirt and we go to the fitting rooms, where I tell him to wait for me outside. "Mommy, I want to go in, too." Okay, you just have a seat there on the little bench. When I take off my clothes to try things on, he abruptly interrupts: "Bend over."

Oh, goody! Time for something that I rarely get to enjoy with anyone else: I get to reprimand him. I mean, I punish my bossy bottom cocksucker sluts all the time, but they like it, because I'm punishing them with more cock and maybe the tip of my stiletto heel digging into their ball sac. With this little boy, correction is not part of his turn-on. But it IS part of good parenting, so I do it. Honey, if you want me to do something, you have to ask me nicely. Please ask again. "Mommy, will you bend over please?"

Of course, sweetheart. Should I leave my white sneakers on?

"Yes, please."


ASK A PHONE WHORE: do you ever get callers who just want to talk?

ASK A PHONE WHORE is a semi-regular feature, appearing whenever I get a good question. Anything you want to know about my phone work, ask away! Make sure to read through the archives here to see if I've already addressed your question in a previous post, or to see if I've written about something already and you have follow-up questions. I may set up a separate page here to solicit questions, or maybe just put a widget up, but for now I'll be running my mail bag over on Facebook.

Q. Do you ever get any callers who just want to talk?

Talk about something other than sex, you mean? Well...

Four months ago the answer to this question was "no". And I guess I would laugh at it a little, too, because I always got the sense that the people asking it were tapping into that user-as-loser stereotype, you know, that all customers/johns are pathetic loners desperate for affection and human contact. Or maybe it is an attempt to provide me with some dignity; after all, look, not every call I do revolves around some guy's dick or my ass! Sometimes it's just talking, like therapy, don't you know! As if that somehow makes up for the pure wank calls.

I've heard that other PSOs get those just-talk calls. I think. I can't tell if I'm remembering that for real or making up memories and conflating them with what I've seen about phone sex in the movies. Whatever. I have never gotten those calls. I might get folks who liked a lot of wind-up before a call, or some cool-down time after, but it is always about the wank. But this guy, now, he's getting a little weird...

He's this guy. And this guy. Yeah, his calls have been challenging in the past. But the last two or three calls I've done with him have been just talk. No sex, no fantasy, which in his case means no guilt or 10-second pauses. Just chatter about whatever. It's ranged from writing and performing (he knows I do it, he doesn't know exactly what) to politics (he's apologetically conservative to me, "I know you've got your own ideas, but...") to movies to the politics of class, service industry, and explicit sexualization at Hooters.

All right, that wasn't the overt topic, but that's pretty much what we covered in talking about his favorite place to get lunch.

The first time his 30-minute call started going that way, I tried to keep on it, checking with him at 5 minutes in—did you want to get dirty today?—and again at 5 minutes before the end of the call. He acknowledged, in his extremely self-effacing way, that he wasn't talking about sex, but he didn't seem to know how to jump back on track, and when I angled the conversation that way he didn't run with my cues, and honestly, he seemed so much more comfortable and at home in his own head when NOT talking about sex that I just... let him keep talking. I felt bad about it the first time, but then I reminded myself that surely he knows that the clock keeps ticking, whatever it is that we're talking about.

He's intelligent enough, but not a very deft conversationalist, and I have to agree with him and feign interest a fair bit, so in its own way it is as exhausting as the one-sided fantasies that I have had to piece together with monosyllabic help from him. I also am not sure where it is coming from, like, does he not have friends to hang out with in a real-life, physical way? Is that why people would just want to talk?

Because really: it's just talk. It's not any kind of vulnerable, soul-baring exchange. Just 30 minutes or an hour of chit-chat.

CALL OF THE DAY: you try singing “Feliz Navidad” around someone’s dick


I can't find the bustier he was talking about, but this is pretty cute...

Bilingual Papi knows he can get away with it, going over the time limit. He knows I won't stop him. I shouldn't let him, I should get hardcore on his ass, but the truth is I really do enjoy his calls and I let them go.

He has so much fun, especially during any kind of holidays. He's just that guy. I bet when he gets older he will put cheesy seasonal flags up outside of his house. I bet he grumbles about the Christmas lights, but really enjoys looking at them when he steps off the ladder for the last time and looks. And in phone sex, he makes holidays really... special.

This Christmas call, he started off by saying he saw something at Frederick's of Hollywood that he thought would look amazing on me, "if you really look like you say you do." Tell me about the outfit, I said. "Oh, god, there was this deep-red velvet bustier"—of course there was—"and a garter belt to match, that would look so good all digging into your ass. God, I LOVE your ass!" He has never seen my ass, but he loves it, and he is REALLY REALLY EXCITED about it dolled up in tacky winter-themed lingerie. Fishnets, he says, and 6-inch-high shiny black shoes, and a little red velvet g-string with a jingle bell on the back. Ooh, and pasties with jingle bells to match! And a Santa's little helper hat, too! Yeah! He said all that!

(Yeah, I'm not giving you a link to Frederick's of Hollywood. You can google that megamillion-dollar crap-lingerie outlet your own damn self.)

Oh, and he wanted me to call him Papi Claus.

So, I did. And I begged him for some serious ass-pounding, because I've been a VERY good girl this year, Papi, you know I have.

"Papi Claus, say it, sweetheart."

Papi Claus, please please please kiss my little asshole and get me ready for it. I need you, Papi, I need to feel you that deep inside me.

Oh, and he roared into it. "God, you are so beautiful. I love the way you talk to me!" And then he put a 1-carat diamond wedding ring on my finger and kissed me so hard—"I want to get balls deep in your ass and just make out forever"—and dressed me up in a bridal dress, except a little bit see-through so he could see the red lingerie underneath, and then after he lifted back the veil he wanted me to suck his dick while singing "Feliz Navidad."

That's when he came.

And that is why I let him go 2.5 minutes over today. Next time I'll tell him that he needs to start buying the 12- or 15-minute packages if he likes hanging out with me that much. But today I got to suck Papi Claus' dick while singing "Feliz Navidad."

Happy holidays, my fellow pervs.

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