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.