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Author: camerynmoore

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Call of the Day: Who’s my daddy?

This last Sunday morning was a bad morning. My Boston lover had been in town last week, but I had gotten my period unexpectedly in the middle of it, so all my plans for fuckery and general romantic sleaze—including a long-anticipated threesome—went right out the fucking window. I had hoped for the flow to stop before Boston daddy had to go home, but Sunday morning arrived with no abatement. Then I was cooking brunch for Boston Daddy and Montreal Foster Daddy and one of my hosts, a really delicious omelette, and of course the phone rang. Make it a chef's scramble, I hissed to my foster daddy as I scurried out of the kitchen, phone in hand.

"It's your favorite guy," said the dispatcher with a heavy layer of sarcasm.

Shit. Extreme Top.

I have written about Extreme Top here, and here, and here. Look, I never promised that my Calls of the Day would be Callers of the Day; honestly, Extreme Top calls enough, and pushes enough of my buttons, and talks SO FUCKING MUCH, that I could do Calls of the Day only about him for months and not run out of material. But you all would end up hating me for it, so I haven't and I won't.

ANYWAY, the call came just in time to ruin my omelette presentation, and when I found out it was Extreme Top, I let out a huge sigh and the dispatcher asked, "Now what?" I told her that my lover was leaving in the next 15 minutes and I wanted to say good bye properly; thanks to my period and being in a festival, I don't feel like I got enough quality time with him on this visit, and I won't be seeing him again until late November. I think she could hear the lump in my throat, because she relented and offered to call me back in a minute or two, so I could say good bye.

So we did, and I got more and more teary-eyed with each kiss, but eventually Boston Daddy was strong for both of us and walked out and closed the door behind him, and I took the second call for Extreme Top. I covered my eyes with my hand and tried to pull it together; he wants my voice to sound young and submissive, but not crying. Not right away, at least.

"How are you doing, baby?" he asked.

Fine, I said. I'm fine.

"I want to make you come hard," he said. "I feel like last time you got off easy. I want you to come a lot today."

Yes, Daddy.

*****

Extreme Top wants me to call him Daddy; it is part of the fantasy that he spins. My lovers in Boston and Montreal also like me to call them Daddy; this is part of the different games I play with them. They're my good daddies, because they love me and actually want me to feel good. Extreme Top is my bad daddy, because he is an asshole customer and pretty frequently interrupts my brunch plans, too.

They are two sides of the same coin, though, as little as my good daddies want to hear it. They all share three things in common: they want me to be a slut. they want me to come. And my really big orgasms sound the same for them all: "daddy daddy daddy daddy," over and over and over and over, until I run out of breath.

*****

I didn't want to come for Extreme Top that day. I always have to work hard for him, it's really hard on my voice, and that day I was so far away from my sexy core, owing to my period and being tired from the festival and Boston daddy's departure and the failed omelette, that I had to dig really, really deep. (Ah, yes, I reminded myself, this is acting!) Somehow I managed to find the muscle memory, and I worked myself up to it.

But when I started saying "daddy daddy daddy" in the middle of my pretend-orgasm, I felt my body go through the physiological shift too—clenched muscles, arched back—and I remembered that Boston Daddy was on the road, and Montreal Foster Daddy was sitting out there on the other side of the closed door, and I had only 11 days before my really hard-core touring starts, and after I leave I wouldn't be with either of my good daddies for a long time. They are both really supportive and loving, and that's exactly what I needed when faced with an international flight and a European tour. But it's Extreme Top who gets to hear me give in.

Against all rational thought, I got angry. Why does Bad Daddy get that? He doesn't deserve it!

I know, I know, I have to give Extreme Top what he wants. He's the paying customer. It's acting with him, more than with almost any of my other client, bsecause I despise him so much. I don't mean it at all when I say "daddy" the way he likes me to say it, and I can live with it, most days. But not that day. That day I wished that his fantasy life and mine didn't intersect in that particular way. I wanted to yell at him, stop just stop, I can't do this today.

That day, I "came" five times in 35 minutes for a man whom I hate, and I mock-screamed "daddy daddy daddy daddy" until my throat hurt, which didn't take long because that lump in my throat stayed with me during the whole call. And as I said "daddy" over and over, lying on my back, staring up at the ceiling, the tears leaked out of my eyes and trickled down to the back of my neck.

He thought I was overcome, gasping after I "came", but really I was just trying to keep from weeping out loud.

I want my daddies, not you.

*****

If you liked this post, be sure to browse around some more. I’ve been blogging about my work in phone sex for almost four years, since six months after I started in April 2009. And if you live in the UK, you’ll have a chance this year to hang out with me while I’m on call! Okay, not really, but that’s what my award-winning solo play Phone Whore feels like, and I’m bringing it to the Edinburgh Fringe Festival Aug. 1-25, and then to five other UK cities through mid-September. Follow those links to read all about the tour and my show, and if you do make it out, come up and say hi!

True confession time

  • Hmmm... I need something that says "hot-model horny slut", something with a REALLY absorbent crotch...

    Hmmm... I need something that says "hot-model horny slut", something with a REALLY absorbent crotch...

    When I don't like a caller, I will start the timer as soon as they say hello. And I am watching that clock the whole time

  • There are a few callers whose required audio feedback is so primitive that I actually can quickly check Facebook updates and not lose a beat.
  • Occasionally—especially late at night, when I'm lying on my bed—I have dozed off for a second or two in the middle of a call.
  • Pro-tip: to recover from those moments, I just laugh knowingly and say, "I know, you dirty boy."
  • When I like a caller, I might start the timer as much as 10 or 15 seconds late, and I can let it run up to two minutes over their time. You can get a lot of post-coital interpersonal bonding done in two minutes.
  • "Princess" is my go-to nickname for my cocksuckers. Depending on the narrative context, I will say it lovingly or mockingly, but it is pretty much standard.
  • Pro-tip: as much as I love the words for myself, "slut" and "whore" are also at the top of the deck for mean cocksucker calls.
  • I don't jack off during calls—only one time, early on, and I never did it again—but a couple of times I have continued fucking, when things were hot and heavy with someone on my end and a call came through in the middle. I did it mostly because the sound F/X matched up really well.
  • Tiffany and Janelle are my daughters' names (pre-teen and teen, respectively). Always. I can't be bothered to make up new shit for every new incest call.
  • Peeing surreptitiously while taking a non-pee-related call is tricky, but I have done it.
  • Pro-tip: Peeing slow only makes it that much louder. Piss fast, during a part where you are talking non-stop or having an orgasm.
  • When I am on tour and taking calls on my cell phone—versus using a landline—I try to get my callers off as quickly as possible within the allowable limits of under time (two minutes under the time package they purchase). International roaming charges suck; why would I rack those up?
  • I don't receive submission calls often, and I hate them when I do, except for Bilingual Papi, partly because he allows me to be bratty.
  • If a caller's line is full of static, I only say "what?" twice and then I just forget about understanding and do my best to give feedback based on the tone of his voice.
  • I dread guys asking to buy my panties. I wear a size 26-28, and usually the description they get is more a 12-14, and I don't want to have to go out and buy a package of smaller panties just for that. (It happened once, and I bought the fakes, but the guy's wife ended up intercepting the package, so the company refunded his money.)
  • Pro-tip: If you're going to be ordering things from your PSO and hiding them from your significant other, get a goddamn PO box first.
  • I frequently use the names of real people in my stories—current or previous lovers, especially—because I have a hard time remembering the cast of characters otherwise.
  • One ex in particular gets trotted out to be the "bull" in the "real-life" BBC/cuckold fantasies; it gives my voice the ring of truth because he actually did have a decent cock, but I also do it because I know he would hate participating in such a scene, and I like to think his balls itch a little every time I drop his name.

CALL OF THE DAY: coitus interruptus, phone-sex style

Please, for the love of God, can I just get one mouthful of this in my face?

Please, for the love of God, can I just get one mouthful of this in my face?

It had been shaping up to be a really nice weekday brunch: bacon, toast, omelet made with Parmesan cheese and garlicky sautéed veggies left over from last night's pasta Alfredo. Definitely the first nice, truly home-cooked meal I had attempted at my new billet, so I should not have been surprised when the phone rang right as I was folding over the finished omelet. (Murphy's Law and Cameryn's Phone-Sex Corollaries.) "Divvy all of that up," I directed my brunch buddy with a sigh, "and then can you take it out to the balcony?" And then I rushed off to the bedroom and my notebook.

It was a 15-minute call, a regular whose calls I don't really like because he only pretends to let me choose scenarios (I know all the ones he likes, in the limited sphere of mommy-daughter ass play), and then after 30 seconds he is back on the steering wheel and veering a hard right, back to whichever scenario he actually wanted that day. He's very nice about it, but still. Grmph.

What is worse—and what I forgot until the first time it happened today—is that he has SHITTY cell phone reception, and it inevitably cuts out two or three times during a 15-minute call. Either that, or he is in an insecure work environment, and totally delusional about exactly how much uninterrupted wanking he can get away with during work hours in an unlockable work space, and so he has to hang up and act nonchalant a few times per call. Either way, it's profoundly irritating and very, very challenging to work with, right? Every time he stops the call, we lose momentum.

So his call interrupts the plating of the brunch, I'm like, okay, fine, I''m fine, and the food might still be fine. But his service drops, sudden silence on the phone after four minutes. I call in per the protocol of my company, let them know his call ran short and why. I don't know when he's going to try to call back, but I take the phone on the balcony, where the plate is still pretty warm. A bite of bacon, that's all, just a little nibble of salted pork product, and the phone rings again. He's back. I tell my friend to go ahead and start eating, and stalk back to the bedroom.

My caller is apologetic in an unspecified way, so that I remain unclear about why his call dropped so abruptly. Okay, we have 10.5 minutes left, I can teach my nubile teenage daughter how to properly rim my ass in that time, oh, yeah, that's right, honey, you're going to learn to get excited ONLY by mommy's asshole, yes, baby, ye..... wait a minute. The silence is back. He's gone again. FUCK.

I call back in to let the dispatcher know that the caller dropped off again. He has 3.5 minutes left. That is NOT enough time to do a good ass-play scene. "We'll see if he calls back," she says. I don't think he will, but of course I keep the phone with me and go out onto the balcony again. My friend has Hoovered up his brunch—he jokingly calls himself Vlad the Inhaler—while my share remains there, pristine, untouched... congealing.

Phone sex is fuckin' HELL on domesticity, man.

CALL OF THE DAY: people who live in glass houses…

How about on the coffee table? "No, it's glass, too."

How about on the coffee table? "No, it's glass, too."

I rarely have a good sense of the caller's location, their surroundings. Bed, chair, in the bathroom leaning over the sink... that much I get, but I don't really know how they live or who they live with, usually. If they're always super whispery and quiet, I guess I can figure out that there's a wife or roommate or coworker somewhere nearby. But other than that, I don't usually know.

This guy, though, he told me. He's one of my longest-term regulars to date, and we talk. He keeps a basement office—he frequently travels for business, though—and lives with his wife and two teenage daughters. Because it is an unfinished basement, with no doors and, I guess, a pretty open floor plan, he can only do calls with me when he knows for a certainty all "the ladies" are going to be out of the house. With two teenagers, those times are not nearly as frequently as he would like.

This week, though... THE LADIES ARE ALL GONE, to the Bahamas or somewhere tropical. His wife and daughters flew off for vacation, leaving him alone in the house for the past 10 days and for the next three, so he has already called twice and says he will call again before they get back.

Yesterday I started out the call asking him a little more about the house layout, and asking him where exactly he could do me. Since he has the run of the house, I further suggested that he actually relocate his bare ass to one of those places, in order to, you know, get more into the scene.

In the living room?

"No, there are floor-to-ceiling windows."

What about up on the countertop in the kitchen?

"Floor-to-ceiling windows."

Um, okay, how about over the dining room table? Wait, let me guess...

Yep, floor-to-ceiling windows. "I don't want the UPS guy to come up to the door and see me writhing around naked."

I bet that's not the worst thing they've seen.

He laughs. "Yeah, well..."

So I say, well, let's pretend that we're in a different location. He chooses the largest sofa in the living room; he likes his sex romantic, but a little bit acrobatic, so that makes sense.

There are four sofas in that room, apparently, which tells me that he lives in a pretty fucking big house. I am starting to put together the architect's rendering in my mind: something big and modern, set on a large lot, but not removed enough from the road, at least from the front, that people can't see in in passing. It's angular on the outside, lots of glass. Obviously if you've got something like that, you don't want to destroy the look with, say, floor-to-ceiling fucking VERTICAL BLINDS or whatever.

I feel that a good pun could be made about glass houses at this point, but mostly I'm just a little sad. No privacy from the outside, no privacy on the inside, only able to call from a basement that probably smells a little bit, you know, basement-y and dank, on a chair that's down there because it doesn't fit in the decor upstairs...

I like it better when he calls me from his hotel.

ASK A PHONE WHORE: “what is a misconception people have about your job?”

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.

First of all, I don't have any clothes that require ironing...

First of all, I don't have any clothes that require ironing...

Q. What is a misconception people have about your job?

Oh, god. I'm going to do a Top-5 list, and maybe later I'll tackle each one in a separate post, because there are so many it's tough to know where to start.

These misconceptions have spread pretty freely, owing to how phone sex operators and the work that we do are depicted in popular culture: films, TV, music videos, etc. And they aren't easily stopped because not a lot of phone sex operators talk about the work publicly. Phone sex is the most anonymous of jobs in the general category of sex work, which means that we can choose to not talk about it if we want to.

I choose to talk about it. Lucky you.

Before I go into the list, though, I want to point out that the real problem with misconceptions and stereotypes is not that they aren't true. Because they often are, for some PSOs. The problem is that they are taken for truth, for all PSOs everywhere.

So here is my Top-5 list of Misconceptions People Have About Professional Phone Sex.

5) We do other things while talking on the phone. I pretty thoroughly discussed this here. This is me and the way my mind works or doesn't work. I am sure there are other PSOs who can multitask, but I can't. (This also doesn't include the category of calls where the client wants the operator to be doing other things and ignoring them. It's a kind of low-impact humiliation thing, I think.)

4) We get off while doing calls. I am sure that some PSOs do, but I do not. I just can't  keep track of my own turn-on and the callers at the same time (see above). And really, I can count on three fingers the callers I've had whose phone presence and fantasies mesh and/or intersect with mine enough to get me off.

3) We can take our calls anywhere. In the awful movie Valentine's Day, the phone-sex-operator character gets into laugh-a-minute hijinks because she keeps getting calls at awkward moments, in awkward places. Once, when I was talking about how touring cuts down on my availability, a fellow operator asked why I didn't take calls while I was driving. To which I answered, I can't multitask like that (see above). I think that for some independent operators, the ones who specialize in long-format domination or Girlfrend Experience calls, the talking-while-driving could be an option. But for me, not. As far as taking the calls anywhere, I would never want to run the risk of inflicting my side of the conversation on an unsuspecting eavesdropper. You've read my Call of the Day posts, right?

2) We are too ugly and/or fat to do in-person sex work. Ugly is a relative term, and I know plenty of fatties who do, in fact, do in-person sex work. While phone sex, like any phone-based work, is a good place for women with great voices and bodies that don't fit into conventional notions of attractiveness, we cover the entire range of body types. And who cares what the person on the other end looks like, anyway? It's a voice and a fantasy.

1) We wear pajamas all day. Okay, I do that. But I know other PSOs who shower and get dressed and sit down at their desks in their separate phone-sex offices, and take lunch breaks, the works. These operators tend to be the ones with more control over their work flow, that is, they are independents or working for a combination company, where they need to be putting out blog posts or do podcasts or troll chat rooms to boost their call volume, so they've got tasks other than waiting for the phone to ring. They've set up their work environment to support that level of productivity, in a way that works for them.

Me? I figure I can just as easily write this post in my kitty pajama bottoms and thin t-shirt and no bra.

********

If you liked this post, be sure to browse around some more. I’ve been blogging about my work in phone sex for almost four years, since six months after I started in April 2009. And if you live in the UK, you’ll have a chance this year to hang out with me while I’m on call! Okay, not really, but that’s what my award-winning solo play Phone Whore feels like, and I’m bringing it to the Edinburgh Fringe Festival Aug. 1-25, and then to five other UK cities through mid-September. Follow those links to read all about the tour and my show, and if you do make it out, come up and say hi!

CALL OF THE DAY: “Who’s a bad man? You are!”

I bet your dick is getting as hard as the steel toe in a cop's boot, isn't it?

I bet your dick is getting as hard as the steel toe in a cop's boot, isn't it?

"He likes to talk about young girls, and he wants you to tell him that he's a bad man."

That's all the dispatcher gave me. The first part I understand; I get pedo calls all the time. The second part I... I've never had a caller specifically have it, in his notes, that he wants to be told that he's a bad man. Sissy faggot, yes. Panty sniffer, yes. Bad man, no. That's simultaneously a very vague insult and a very specific target.

When we get on the phone, I start with the standard option: would you like to hear a little about me or tell me about yourself? He goes straight for the good stuff: He's got a girl there in front of him, and she's pretty out of it.

Oh, right, that's my cue!

I start to put on a concerned tone, shading to outraged, asking the questions that he obviously wants me to ask—what do you mean she's out of it? What did you do to her? How old is she? She's WHAT?—since he is not volunteering the information on his own. When I find out she's 11, I find myself in a strange place. How many different synonyms can I get for "bad man" that aren't complimentary in my head? "Sick fuck", "dirty perv", "twisted bastard"... these are practically terms of endearment amongst some of my friends.

To get in the right head space, I have to get into the minds of the people who think what I do in phone sex is appalling and wrong. I have to pretend, for the duration of this call, that I do NOT in fact understand the difference between fantasy and real life, that I honestly think he is doing terrible things to a real 11-year-old. It is really hard for me to reach back to that state of naivete, and everything I say sounds ... weird and unconvincing.

Finally, at about five minutes in, he says, "What could you do about it ?"

Shit, that's another cue, and I don't understand what it means. I could... take her place?

"You could, but what else?"

I could ... push you out of the way?

"What if you called someone?"

Oh! ... I mean, YES I COULD REPORT YOU TO THE AUTHORITIES, bad man that you are, and they would kick the door in and drag you outside with your dick hanging out, and everyone in the neighborhood will know!

That's the sort of thing that I tell him, over the next two minutes: what a bad man he is, and I am totally calling the cops right now, and oh my god, they are going to kick his door in and find him right there, with his dick firmly planted in some pre-teen pussy, no mercy, you are going to get busted for sure, I am going to call the cops right now, and dude, you are totally going to get what's coming to you. It still feels really fake, but now I have the authorities on my side!

I guess it's an acceptable fakery, though; like, he buys it. After he comes, he says to me, "I just want to make sure that you understand that this isn't real. I just need to hear that stuff to get off."

(A-DOY.) Oh, I know. This is the sort of thing that phone sex was built for!

"No, no, no, I understand. It's just... if someone were to hear this without knowing the truth, they might actually call the police."

No, baby, don't worry. I get it. I'm just acting shocked and offended.

That, my friends, was a weird line to dance along.

********

If you liked this post, be sure to browse around some more. I’ve been blogging about my work in phone sex for almost four years, since six months after I started in April 2009. And if you live in the UK, you’ll have a chance this year to hang out with me while I’m on call! Okay, not really, but that’s what my award-winning solo play Phone Whore feels like, and I’m bringing it to the Edinburgh Fringe Festival Aug. 1-25, and then to five other UK cities through mid-September. Follow those links to read all about the tour and my show, and if you do make it out, come up and say hi!

ASK A PHONE WHORE: “do you ever recommend resources?”

 

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 find yourself recommending kink resources to clients, and if so what kind?

Okay. Let me start with a seemingly unrelated observation: in phone sex, NO ONE REALLY KNOWS THE TRUTH.

The truth? You want the truth? Because it will NOT turn you on, I promise!

The truth? You can't handle the truth! Because it will NOT turn you on, I promise!

I tell my callers a whole range of truths, ranging from my correct height to everything short of my name and what city I'm next performing in, but that mostly has to do with how mentally "on" I am that day or what it already says on their card. It very rarely has anything to do with whether or not they want "the real information" or not, because I can't really be sure whether or not they really want "the real information" or not.  They may say they want it, but that could very easily be part of a fantasy they have about being really into the real life of a phone sex operator, like, ooooh, they're getting privileged information.

I'm in a similar position with regard to giving callers actual advice or referrals to resources. They may say they want advice on how to handle something, or they wish there was a place they could go to, say, cross-dress to their heart's content, but I will never know for sure whether that's something they are really searching for, or if it's just part of their fantasy of someday actualizing that fantasy. I never offer advice or resources unless they outright ask me, but even when they do ask, I weigh it carefully and I certainly never expect that anyone will act on it, or indeed, even bring it up again.

Having said all that, then, yes, I have given referrals on a few occasions:

  • A caller who liked me to be a super-sized Big Beautiful Woman (meaning somewhere in the 425-pound range) bemoaned the fact that there were so few self-confident sexy fat women out there like me. I said, well, you know about BBW bashes, right? He was all, uh, noooo? So I looked up the closest BBW dances (Chicago) to where he said he was located (Des Moines. No, really), and gave him the URL. The fact that he was also hoping to find a domme who would do him with a strap-on and piss on his face... well, I told him the first order of business was meeting the confident fatties, and maybe the kink stuff should wait until the second or third date.
  • A caller who talked about his cross-dressing, and said he felt isolated because of it. Where do you live? I asked. New York City, he said, and I promptly discounted much of what he was saying. Not entirely, because psychological isolation can count as much as, if not more than, geographical distance, in terms of accessing resources. But on the other hand, NEW YORK CITY. So, I gave him a few links to cross-dressing support groups.
  • One of my regulars is slightly dominant, with strong sadistic tendencies in his role-play fantasies. He's adorable over the phone—very intelligent and articulate and funny, seemingly self-aware—which makes it that much worse when he expresses how he DOESN'T want to be that way. He honestly seems to think he is a bad man for having those desires. I am pretty sure that I have mentioned fetlife.com to him on a couple of occasions.

With this last guy in particular, I  am not sure that my recommendation is going anywhere, because he very obviously is dealing with self-loathing, and before one can access kink-positive resources, one has to be at a certain point on one's own path. He's got a long way to go before that point.

**********

If you liked this post, be sure to browse around some more. I’ve been blogging about my work in phone sex for almost four years, since six months after I started in April 2009. And if you live in the UK, you’ll have a chance this year to hang out with me while I’m on call! Okay, not really, but that’s what my award-winning solo play Phone Whore feels like, and I’m bringing it to the Edinburgh Fringe Festival Aug. 1-25, and then to five other UK cities through mid-September. Follow those links to read all about the tour and my show, and if you do make it out, come up and say hi!

CALL OF THE DAY: different day, same shit

You know what they say: clean toilet, dirty mind...

You know what they say: clean toilet, dirty mind...

When the dispatcher gives me this guy, I take a deep breath. I know it's time to consciously ignore everything I know about hygiene and clean bedroom sheets. Actually, for best results, I need to remember all that stuff, and then do the exact opposite.

He's another one of those semi-regulars; he doesn't ever request anyone, but because I'm always on at the time of day when he calls, I get him a lot. He also wants someone older and "really nasty", which... I guess that's me. He likes me to talk about shit and piss and cum and squirt, all of it, in all directions, in all orifices. The only thing he doesn't bring up is menstrual fluid, which is fine by me, because it's already really fucking messy in that imaginary bedroom scene.

It's only the shit that hits my squick button, to be honest. Everything else I have tried and either incorporated it enthusiastically into my repertoire, or I'd do it again under the right circumstances, so I can talk about it with a certain level of enthusiasm or at least knowledge. The shit, though, not so much.

I mean, I've had butt sex early on in my sexual career where I hadn't cleaned as thoroughly as usually and got freaked out by a tiny little brown smear on the end of the condom. By "freaked out", I mean I buried my face in the pillows and burst into tears and wouldn't even look at my partner until he had removed the condom and washed his hands and then hugged me and assured me that it was fine, really, it was fine.

I've gotten a lot less panicky since then; if you like butt sex and keep trying, you wind up getting a sort of exposure therapy. But I haven't reached the level of actual indifference, and I don't think I ever will.

So what? you might be wondering. I thought these Calls of the Day were supposed to be about the calls, not about you. Well, yes. I just wanted to let you know that I don't have a Mind of Steel, no matter how it might seem sometimes. I've got my touchy spots. I've learned to really clamp down, suit up, and deliver convincing experiences in a whole range of things that are WAYYYY outside my personal comfort zone.

But, you know, that shit's still under there. Sometimes literally.

***************

If you liked this post, be sure to browse around some more. I've been blogging about my work in phone sex for almost four years, since six months after I started in April 2009. And if you live in the UK, you'll have a chance this year to hang out with me while I'm on call! Okay, not really, but that's what my award-winning solo play Phone Whore feels like, and I'm bringing it to the Edinburgh Fringe Festival Aug. 1-25, and then to five other UK cities through mid-September. Follow those links to read all about the tour and my show, and if you do make it out, come up and say hi!

QUANTIFYING PHONE SEX: too many questions

questionsThere is a certain amount of back-and-forth questioning that occurs in the better phone sex calls, and by "better", I mean calls that are being done by people who know what they are doing, on both sides. These callers know what they want, even if they're afraid to put words on it, and they can respect the time limits.

The questions may be about what I look like, or what they're wearing for me (for example, if the dispatcher told me the caller was a sissy). The questions might be teasing or harsh in tone, again, depending on what the dispatcher gave me as my role. If the caller is one of the silent types, I end up asking most of the questions. But I choose the questions carefully, and I don't let them go on too long. At a certain point, the questions are not going to forward the call any further. The action has to get started.

But when the caller keeps asking questions, I know there are going to be problems. He either is a) really high or otherwise fundamentally/physiologicaly incapable of focusing, or b) really obnoxious and he is determined to push the customer service model out as far as he can.

He knows that "customer is king", and that there's probably a little flex in the end time, and he is almost certainly the sort of guy who will say, when I tell him that we have two minutes left in his seven-minute call, all of which he has wasted on a barrage of irrelevant questions, he is exactly the guy who will say something like, "come on, bitch, make me come."

Like I haven't been trying to help with that for the last five minutes.

Their incessant barrage—are you shaved? what's the kinkiest thing you've ever done? What's your waist measurement? Have you ever had sex with another girl? Do you have a husband? Does he know you do phone sex?—has been getting in the way. NOBODY needs that kind of scattershot detail to do phone sex. That's just a stalling tactic to talk to a pretty girl for longer. (They probably did it to the dispatcher, too, in the process of trying to figure out which girl to take.)

Word of advice to first-time phone-sex consumers: except for a few quick things, let the operator ask the questions. She's keeping track of the time, and she knows how to get to your core quickly.

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