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He's not a regular, in that he never requests me. I don't recognize his name, either. But when the dispatcher gives me his number, I remember exactly what he wants: eight inches of fully functioning "she-male" cock.
I put that term in quotes when I'm not using it during a phone call; "she-male" is a dehumanizing, exoticizing porno term that has infiltrated straight male vocabulary, and it drives me completely ape-shit. But that's the term my wankers use, and I don't get to educate them. I get to ejaculate on them.
I do a lot of the "she-male" calls, owing to my voice; it exists right on that intersection of "low-pitched enough to maybe be convincing to someone who doesn't know better" and "dominant enough to really be convincing about shoving my dick in his pie-hole". I mean, I get it. It's the same thing that works for me with the pegging calls. But these guys want real, throbbing dick attached to a beautiful, "passable" woman.
Guh. Again, the quotes are required.
Because these callers of mine almost certainly don't have a very nuanced understanding of gender out in the face-to-face world. Even if this guy knows that transwomen actually do exist outside of porn, I have a lingering sense of unease about what he does out there, or would do out there, with/to actual transwomen. I am willing to bet a lot of money—well, at least the $4 that I earn from seven minutes of virtually face-banging this guy—that he would bolt in the opposite direction if anyone else even suspected that the woman on his arm was trans.
Maybe worse than just bolt. The way he likes me to lay the groundwork for his story—I'm a beautiful woman approaching him in a bar, and he can feel my hard-on when I press up against him—FREAKS ME OUT A LITTLE, every time I tell it. And I tell it to a lot of callers. That set-up may be the perfect beginning of their sexual fantasy, but it is also the beginning of every other news report of "homosexual panic" culminating in violence against trans-women.
Jeezus, there are so many quote marks in this post.
So, yeah. I dunno. Maybe I'm underestimating this caller, because I do know cis-gendered guys who are attracted to actual transwomen, and maybe this guy is one of them and he's just calling because his wife, who happens to have a dick, is out of town for a couple of weeks, and he's lonely. I'm definitely over-analyzing it. But when my caller gets worked up about my 38C tits and beautiful curves, and the fact you can't see my bulge underneath my denim skirt—he can only feel it when he's on his knees and and I'm grinding his face against my crotch... Well, he obviously wants the "passable" woman with the perfect cock.
And I can't help wondering how he would treat any other kind of woman with any other kind of cock.
ASK A PHONE WHORE is going to be a new, semi-regular feature, appearing whenever I get a good question. Anything you want to know about my phone work, ask away! I encourage you 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 find your work sexually stimulating, or have you erected a wall between what you say for work and your own sexuality?
I get this question a lot after performances of my solo show Phone Whore. I get this question a lot everywhere.
The answer is No. Or Kinda. Or Yes, definitely, but...
First of all, no.
In order to answer this question, the first thing I want you to really understand about sex, like, I want you to REALLY GET IT, is that there may be some trends and archetypes and so-called universals, but actually, we are all really, really different. Especially in our heads. As a result of this glorious diversity, the overlap between what my callers want to talk about and what I would want to talk about is so small that it is, for the purpose of this discussion, nil. They are paying to get exactly what they want, so I am not going to try to derail the call into what is exactly and specifically hot for me.
I'm not really thinking about the work in terms of getting sexually excited, either, because I'm just too busy listening for feedback and trying to follow the storyline that I built in my head, or remember exactly what I told this guy the last time about how many lovers I supposedly have (six) and how young they are (all under 25, the youngest 15).
When I said "exactly", I really meant it.
Even with notes on my cards, this is a lot of stuff to juggle, so I don't really have mental room to devote to what is going to get me off. I don't want to, either. Someone has to steer this ship, and get this guy to harbor in the designated time limit, and that someone is me. That's my job.
When I do the calls that require a more verbal response—like moans or heavy breathing or some kind of struggle or orgasms—I have found that I get the most authentic feeling when I close my eyes and mentally go there, at least. And it's the oddest thing, but my body responds during those calls as if the fantasy is actually taking place: my back arches, my thighs clench together, I flail my head side to side in protest. I use hyperventilation regularly when I'm performing multiple orgasms because it sounds right, but that in particular has a way of going into a loop, and I find myself hyperventilating in a way that is very similar to what happens to me, actually, during orgasm.
In other words, my body picks up on the pretend sex that I'm having, and starts to mimic the physical process of that sex. I've never had an orgasm doing phone sex, but I've had the workout that goes into one.
And, well, definitely, but...
My own sexuality is heavily predicated on intelligence. Sapio-sexual, I think is what the kids are calling it. I am drawn to smart people, in particular people who are articulate, and it is immediately obvious, when I am talking with a caller, whether they are articulate.
Phone sex showcases verbal skill. It's why I'm good at it. It's also why, when I get that kind of caller—which is more often than you'd think, but not as often as I'd like—I do get a little turned on. The wordplay and the inventiveness and the vibrant back-and-forth that can happen before, during, and after a scene... these are things that I enjoy in real life. When they happen over the phone, well, I never lose awareness that is my job, but I always get a little brain tingle, like, ooh, this is a call that I can have fun with. This is someone who will be willing and able to play.
So, I guess to keep your metaphor: there is definitely a wall between my phone sexuality and my personal sexuality, but it's permeable in spots.
He's an ass man, but he wants a particular kind of ass: mother-daughter ass, to be precise. And not just any kind of mother-daughter ass, but particularly mother-pre-teen-daughter ass, and one that is particularly willing. He wants to know that the prospect of me getting my 10-year-old daughter's ass ready for him Turns Me On.
This is an essential part of my skill set, that I be able to act authentically aroused. There are a few calls where I need to sound violated (rape fantasies), angry (extreme domme), or utterly indifferent (the humiliation calls), but for the most part, I am supposed to sound like what the caller wants is absolutely getting me hot and I couldn't imagine doing anything else at that moment. I can convey that emotion in a lot of different ways.
But no. This guy wants me to SAY IT, repeatedly, that it Turns Me On. He prompts me to say it at regular intervals, and it irritates me every time he asks for it. It is not enough for me to go "Mmmmmm!" and "Ahhhhh!" and "Oh, that little pucker is twitching, she is so ready for it!" That is not clear enough. I have to SAY IT, that this turns me on.
I have nothing against lying, in this context. My entire work in phone sex is suspended on a delicate, beautiful tissue of untruths. I give him what he wants, a perverted version of Yes Means Yes, enthusiastic consent, the most boisterous, joyful co-conspirator you could ask for in a pre-teen buggery fantasy.
But outside of the call, of course I wonder. Is he so uneasy in his own fantasies that he is uncomfortable inhabiting them by himself? How much does he want to feel that he is not alone in being a pervert? How much is this true for any of my callers? He seems to want to believe that I am not just making this story up for money, but that I actually enjoy it, that I get so wet, that this is my desire, too. I imagine many callers' fantasy logic as follows: if I am not alone in thinking about this act, then I am not weird. Maybe this guy just needs the explicit, verbal statement to believe it.
It is one of my burning desires, on a social-change level, that people could just look at their fantasies and not feel weird, that they have people to share it with who will say Yes. Almost surely this caller does not have anyone closer than me to say it to him. So yes, I will Say It. I will Say Yes, I Want It, and keep wondering.
I don't know exactly why this is. I don't know why any of the things I notice in the "Quantifying Phone Sex" infographic series are correlated. In this case, though, gravity is playing a part in it. If a guy is into big tits, he wants to be in a position where they are really showcased, and hanging right down into his face is a pretty good showcase. The bigger the cup size is, it seems, the more symbolic the tit becomes, the more it merges with its more archetypal meaning of nurturing, etc. (Oh, baby, are you hungry?) And as far as most of my BBC lovers liking to hear about my big tits, I think there are two reasons for that:
1) "Liking big tits" is enough of a signifier of straight identity to neutralize the explicit homo-erotic content of a BBC call.
2) "Having big tits" is a strong signifier of maturity, and "mature" = "kinky" = "been around the block" = "can handle talking to me about Big Black Cock"
Often, when I tell someone new that I'm a phone sex operator, they say, "Oh! How long did you do that?" Notice the the use of past tense. The assumption is, of course, that my time in phone sex was in the past, that I am no longer doing it, that I have left it behind and moved on to my obviously successful and lucrative career in playwriting and solo performance.
<pause for laugh break>
Yes. I find that hilarious, too.
I am glad that my profile and branding and visibility is high enough at this point that people think I must doing well, but really... it's mostly PR. I need to make people think that I'm already big news, so they don't want to miss me, so they want to book me. This isn't marketing hyperbole, as much as it is simply my M.O.: I fake it 'til I make it. I am sure a lot of emergent performers do this, putting out their hype just slightly ahead of their performance curve, and stepping up to the plate with a prayer on every slightly shallow breath.
I am also quite sure that my colleagues in performance, those of us hovering around the same level of visibility and exposure and gig income... most of us have second jobs. Maybe even third jobs, but definitely second ones. Whether it's the time-honored food-service position, or consulting gigs in tech writing, or office jobs, or arts administrators at various levels, or yes, phone sex... we have to make money somehow while we are striving to make money in some other way.
But not all of these second jobs are treated the same way. People accept without comment that actors might perform and continue to wait tables, or that playwrights would write in the evenings, after they've left the office. What is it about phone sex, and sex work in general, that makes it so hard to reconcile with other aspirations?
I don't have all the answers, I never do. I just have thoughts, and they are these:
First of all, it is a not-unheard-of approach for writers to dip into some exotic field or lifestyle and then dip right back out when they've got enough material. I wonder if people assume that naturally I'd have followed that trajectory, because my first play Phone Whore is about phone sex, and, you know... Why would I still be doing phone sex, if I got what I needed from it, i.e. grist for the mill?
Oh, wait. What if I wasn't doing it for the research? What if I needed the actual money? What if I still need the money? What if this option is, in fact, preferable to other paying-the-bills options?
Okay. It has become kind of okay to say, in some circles, that you did a little sex work, if you put it down to fun or research or empowerment. If you did sex work strictly for the money, you can only really admit it if you put it in the past, and remove any element of choice about it, as much as possible. To buy nice clothes? Not desperate enough. We're talking paying for college, making money after a layoff, getting off the streets. In the past. In the popular cultural understanding, sex work is a last resort, and if it happened in the past, it means that you boot-strapped your way out of a terrible situation and props to you, and now you can leave that all behind you. We can only talk about "degrading situations" if we've triumphed over them, or if we're actively working on getting out. That is the way a feel-good narrative works.
But saying out loud, in a broad-daylight way, that one does sex work for money, that one is currently doing it, that one has no immediate, focused, near-future plans for not doing it... that looks, to the outside eye, suspiciously like "giving up on ourselves". "Undervaluing ourselves." Obviously "not motivated enough". Bleah. You know what? I felt a lot less valued in the office job I got laid off from in 2009, and I was getting a lot less of my own creative work done. But people think "sex work" = "unmotivated", which doesn't mesh with how they see me. Not that I need to break stereotypes, but...
POW. Did that hurt when your brain blew out sideways?
The truth is, there are many reasons why sex workers are doing the work we do, and as with any profession, some of us desperately want out, some love it, or are just fine with it, and some are doing it, with greater or lesser degrees of enthusiasm, until our other plans pan out.
I fall in this last category, for sure. I do want to make my living writing and performing. But I don't see what I'm doing as "rescuing myself". I'm working toward success in performance, not away from some tragically wasted life in phone sex, boo hoo. No. I still do phone sex, and I'm really, really good with doing phone sex right now, and I'm in no particular rush to leave it, BELIEVE IT.
When I "make it", when I get to the point that I make all my living in performance, I will tell people the periods of my employment in phone sex, if it's relevant, but I won't hide this life, or refer to it as a wacky little phase, or a terrible time that I got through. This is a decent fucking job that I've held for four years. It can be isolating as hell, and it's a little marginal right now, but it's easier on my feet than food service. And doing phone sex does more than pay the bills. It inspired my first play, and feeds my soul and my mind in a way that no other job ever has.
So my question to you is: why should I be so eager to leave that?
I had a caller who liked to talk about how far he shot his load; he claimed his record was 15 feet, which he knew was accurate because (he said) he stood in the same place every time and marked the distances with masking tape.
Of course he asked me how his distances compared with those of other men I had slept with. One time I said to him, “I don’t know, there’s usually a condom or my tits in the way.” Most of the time I gave him what he wanted: “Not as far as you do.” But I never told him actual range of distances, because I didn’t know them until I looked them up. (See the awesome infographic below!)
My caller wasn't after a real range of measurements, anyway. He was obviously making a bid for power here, equating ejaculation distance with masculine force, even though it's not like more forceful ejaculate is going to push the sperm harder and faster up into the fallopian tubes to get a head start on the whole fertilization thing. It's just a thing, with a range of experiences, but our society tells men to be bigger, better, faster, stronger, farther...
Money shots in porn get into this yardstick approach to sexual prowess, too, and I watch in bemusement. Because that's not where the excitement is for me, in real life. In real life, I like watching my lover's face get all red and squeezed up, his eyes roll back in his head or stare fiercely at me, the muscles in his neck or chest get tight. I'm listening for a certain guttural rattle in his moan that tells me that he has hit his core. I'm waiting to pick up whatever cum with my tongue, whether that's just licking my chin or having him scrape a splatter off my thigh and spoon it into my mouth. I'm NOT standing by with masking tape, waiting to mark the farthest-flung wet spot.
Yes, I know, this is why ACTING. This is why I'm getting paid: their kink is not my kink, I just have to act as though it is. I'm just glad that I can find many of my kinks in my face-to-face life. I like make-believe as much as the next kinkster, but there's nothing like hands-on, five-senses immersion in the experience...
** The only thing missing from this graph is the final distance of one of my favorite phrases to use for a really hard cum: “shooting holes in the dry wall.” Now, I’m no liquid ballistics expert, but... cum would have to be traveling fast for that. At that speed, with no dry wall in front of it, how far would cum travel before landing? Exercise left for the reader...
I have a statistic that I sometimes use in my stand-up routines, that 30 to 40 percent of my calls are looking for dick. What I don't go into—who has time for subtlety in a seven-minute set?—is that there are many ways that guys can get discussion of dick into a call. Subcategories of Cock, if you will. There is the ever-popular BBC, the "fully functional she-male", cuckolding, forced bisexuality, horse cocks, dog cocks. (Pegging I do not count automatically, but I am never surprised when, after a few calls using my strap-on, the caller manages to shift attention to my boyfriend waiting nearby.)
These cocks are all big. My rule of thumb is, DEFINITELY BIGGER THAN A THUMB. Nine inches or larger, unless they specify otherwise. But this is my size queen; his dicks aren't just big, they are GARGANTUAN. He wants to be ravished by 24-inch dicks, doesn't matter what color they are or what they're attached to, man or beast or bouncy co-ed.
I have had to learn about various ways of working giant fucking cock into the scene; it is thanks to him that I have even the beginning of an understanding about non-real fantasy sex. This caller was the one who told me about the horse cock dildos being marketed out there, and pointed me to videos featuring the former body builder-turned-porn actress Yvette Bova, who caught this caller's attention with a strap-on that hung past her knees.
When we first started, we were playing with the BBC trope, and I was worried for a few calls that he thought that black men were supernaturally hung, like, he believed the marketing. His fantasies would have be on the extreme, in terms of measurements, but he would not be the first to fall for it, and not really have access to a data pool to prove otherwise.
But no, he gets it. He understands that his giant cock doesn't exist. Okay, yes, the horse's dick, but he understands that he would never want to get fucked by that. And the bouncy co-ed "she-male", taking a shower with her equally well-endowed friends? Yeah, she's not real. And even if she were, the kind of dick I'm talking about would kill him before it made him come.
I didn't have to tell him, he just mentioned one day before we went into a scene. "I know in real life I wouldn't be able to take that much," he said, and he has also mentioned that the improbable length he seeks in human cock isn't available outside of sex toys. That's okay, though. The fantasy works. He just likes to play with the idea of being filled up, by something that he couldn't encircle even with two hands. He likes being a greedy slut, one who will constantly beg for more (he's a bit of an overachiever that way, actually). And whatever extreme measurements or comparisons I can use with him, he's counting on me to get him to that head space, to get him imagining being stuffed that full, being helpless before the onslaught. It's not that unusual of a fantasy, at its core:
Fill me up. Use me hard.
WANNA SEE A MOVIE ABOUT PHONE SEX THAT'S SMART AND MAKES SENSE? I KNOW I DO. So much so that I'm going to make it happen. Donate TODAY to support the production of Phone Whore on film! All the details here:
My director showed me the first draft of the Phone Whore screenplay this week. Since I know nothing about exterior shots and zooms and cuts, we decided that the best way to adapt the original script is to have him get in and make the breaks and add the action, and then I look over it to make sure that we haven't lost what it is that I want the whole thing to say.
Checks and balances. Thank god they're there, because I already called him out on one key thing. At a certain point he had my character on a call and checking email at the same time. I did a double-take when I read that, I very consciously and carefully re-read that particular passage, to make sure I hadn't mistaken how he had laid the scene out. Nope. He had me on a call, and reacting to something on the laptop. My hackles went up, and I had to breathe slow, so that when my director and I talked 10 minutes later, I could tell him this in the middle of my few other script comments:
I don't work that way.
I don't multitask when I'm on a call.
In Phone Whore the play, when I "take a call" on stage, for the duration of that call, I direct my attention over the audience, up to the top of a wall or the EXIT sign at the back of the theater. I am not doing that because I don't know where to look, but because when I'm on a call, that's what I actually do. I go to a green screen in my mind, against which I spin the porno that I am creating for the caller. I don't know what other PSOs do, but that's how I work. I watch that scene, watch my words create it even while I am following it.
It may not look like I am doing anything, and I understood, from the director's point of view, that it is kinda boring for film, but I told him to find some other way to add visual interest and action and dynamism, because the way he wrote it was wrong. Wherever I am sitting or lying, whatever my position, creating the story or encounter is the only thing that I am ever doing while I'm on a call.
Yes, I learned that from experience. I have tried doing phone sex while clicking briefly through Facebook, putting away dishes, even once while getting my pussy fingered, and the result was always the same: I was distracted and I'm sure the call quality suffered. I tried that maybe three times, at the beginning, and now I definitely don't do my calls that way.
More than almost anything else, I resent the implicit stereotype. You know the one I'm talking about. It's in every movie or music video or TV show that references phone sex, the idea that phone sex is easy to do, easy enough to do that you can do it while checking email, while cooking, while holding an iron in one hand and a baby in another. That it doesn't require any particular focus. That it's just a bunch of moaning and groaning and you don't need anything special to do it, not only that, but you can do it while doing anything else.
But you can't. Well, I can't. I have more pride in my work than that. Or maybe I'm just shitty at multitasking. Maybe a bit of both
So I told my director. I told him the only things I might do while on call would be
a) utterly mindless actions that
b) don't make any noise and
c) would be done quickly,
d) in order to prevent a fire alarm or some other loud noise from going off.
Like turning down the heat on a pot of soup or setting my cell phone on silence. That's it. I'm not mixing cookies or even sorting socks, and I'm certainly not checking my email. I'm paying attention. If I'm not, then that porno in my head is going to get weird and wobbly and stupid really quick, and that's not what my clients are paying me for.
I really don't have a problem with people eavesdropping on my calls, just like in Phone Whore, but when this caller comes on, I shoo people out of the room. No one expects baby rape and snuff fantasies coming through the phone sex lines, but they're out there. Rather, they're right here, in my ear and on my tongue, and I want to protect you, keep them far away from you, so yeah, get out of my room and go play with your smartphone in my kitchen.
He never requests me, at first. It seems as though he'll talk to whatever girl is available when he calls. If he likes your voice and attitude, though, he'll keep calling, in 10-minute increments, with the age of the baby getting lower with each call. When I find out that I'll be talking to this baby-fucker, I start the first iteration of the scene with "our daughter" (mine and the caller's) at a year old. That gives me lots of room for the downward slide. I have done eight or nine calls in a row with this guy, and got down to a two-day old infant.
Make no mistake: these are violent calls. They end in blood and crushing and rigor mortis. I am NOT a fan of the macabre, in any genre, but I think that I'm giving a pretty accurate portrayal of what might happen when a man rapes a baby. And these calls are as simple as they are violent: I learned to do them just by echoing and expanding on his statements, which he repeats and repeats, over and over... "no one's going to know", "G. loves his little daughter", "I don't give a shit." Over and over. I listen to myself talking to him, objectively assessing my output, and honestly, my tone of voice, the one he responds to best, makes the scene sound like a liturgy, or a meditation.
Even here, though, I find myself skirting around him and his fantasies. I'm not going to tell you the details; I don't want people knowing how bloody and dark I can go, how bloody and dark my callers can go.
I mention it in passing in Phone Whore, but I would never have chosen this fantasy to include in the Phone Whore call sequence, partly because it's really not common and partly because I know that this particular line in the sand is too far out for mainstream consumption. It just is, even though there are some people who seem to have no problems going to see incredibly violent and/or gory movies.
This guy is not my line in the sand, but he is my own personal litmus test, the one I use on myself. If I really believe that all fantasies are fine, that anything that happens in your own head is great, that applies to my baby-fuckers as well as the most straightforward ass-fucking performance I can portray. I believe this to be true. And even while I position him on the farthest outer edges of my phone sex universe, I know that someday I will talk with someone else who will push it out even farther. As Shakespeare said,
"There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, Than are dreamt of in your philosophy."