Author: camerynmoore

Browsing all posts of camerynmoore

the death of imagination

His voice was dull and colorless as he asked me about how old I was when I first had sex and had I ever had a gang bang. I spun out my best teen-slut stories, trying to find his hook, but his voice never changed and he just kept asking questions. At seven minutes into his 10-minute call, I said to him sweetly, "So, we have about three minutes left. I just want to make sure that you're happy before we have to go."

"Well, it's all right," he said, almost apologetically. "I have a hard time getting hard these days. Maybe tonight I'll think about some of the stuff you told me and try again. I'm 56 and you know, when the imagination goes, it's just... that's the end of it."

When he said that, my heart fell a little. Not because it was really outside of any scene and I knew that we weren't going to get him there on that call—I knew that already—but because a) he's right, and b) that is a terrible place to be. Never mind his dick, he couldn't even get his imagination up anymore, or he felt like he couldn't, which is functionally the same thing.


one simple blow job takes up a lot of photo wheels...

I mean, cuz WHOA, imagination is what phone sex is built on. I think it is what all good sex is built on: what's in the head. It's one of the things that separates us from the rest of the animal kingdom. We are not constrained to rut when needed for the survival of the species, and therefore we can fuck however we want, and that includes across every virtual surface we can create in our heads. There we can play with things that are not; we can fuck anybody, real or imaginary, dead or living; we can imagine ourselves with physical traits that are not sustainable in the real world. We can flip through other people's teen-slut stories, for example, like we would click through a View-Master and pause, enjoying our favorite scenes.

This is one of the awesome things about phone sex, but it takes two people to get there, and both have to be using their imaginations at least a little bit. I can be reveling in the glorious porno that I'm weaving in my head, giving my best sound effects and throwing together the most powerful teen-slut narrative ever, but if he's not playing along, if he has no room in his mind to play, hell, if that's not even his fantasy but he brought it up because THAT'S WHAT SOCIETY TELLS HIM HE SHOULD WANT... then no, there will be no orgasms with that.

I'm sure I told him something like "it's not dead, you just have to dig a little deeper for it." How else could I have said it? "We can revive it, you're just going to have to come out and play more often." That sounds like fishing, like a really obvious ploy to get him to call the service more regularly, and that's not what I'm talking about. I don't care who he does it with: with another PSO, with a wife or girlfriend, by himself with his virtual View Master.

This is an emergency, man. Your imagination is dying. Get in there, pull everything out, and PLAY.


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CALL OF THE DAY: look at my thighs, now look back at my toes…

He was the second in a row of two new-to-me callers. New callers are good, from a micro-marketing point of view, because for me—and I don't know how this is true across the industry or even in my company—but for me, real regulars, who a) talk to me only, b) call regularly, and c) have been with me longer than a year, are rare.

I get "regulars", but they're actually semi-regulars. Turns out they were just on a Cameryn kick for a little while and then they wanted to try someone "barely legal". Or they were just using me while their favorite girl was on vacation for a couple of months. Or they ran out of money, or their wife found the credit card bill, or they found a new channel on xhamster, or they got three new account to manage at work and now they're working 80 hours a week, and they stop for a while, or forever... the point is, there is attrition, which means I always want a trickle of new potential regulars auditioning me.

So, okay. This guy. The dispatcher says he's a "hot n sexy", which I always take with a grain of salt. There is a not-insignificant chance, with "hot n sexy" callers, that they've actually got something fairly specific and/or graphic, and the operators who have done them in the past have just never bothered to call back in to the dispatcher and update the notes in the system. I mean, I rarely do it myself. So, he could just be into plain ol' pussy-eating or titty-fucking, or he could whip out something a little different. Depends what the next clue from the dispatcher means...

Thick, like, BBW?
"It just says 'thick'. I have no idea, honey. Seven minutes, the cheap bastard. Go get 'im."

He asks me to describe myself, but he's not actually listening; instead, he comes at me pretty quickly with his question: "Do you know about cuckolding?"
Yes, of course.
"I want to catch you at it."
Okay, so you walk in the door...
"OH MY GOD HONEY WHAT ARE YOU DOING?" (yes, this is when he actually starts shouting)
I think it's obvious what I'm doing. I'm getting fucked better than I ever got from you. I'm on the couch on my hands and knees ...
... I'm on my back and he's...
... oh my god, yes...
Uh... look, honey, he's fucking me so hard that my toes are pointing!
Yes, oh yeah...
... Oh, yes, my toes are pointing.
(Ah-haaah. That's where the "thick" comes in.)
He's digging those big strong fingers into my thick thighs, he's getting ready to come...

Two things I learned from this call:

1) hooray for the erotic imagination, picking up ANY DAMN THING and making it hot!
2) the ability of that imagination to combine two or more erotic things into one fantasy means I will never stop being surprised. Probably. Hopefully.


THANKS FOR READING! Browse around some more, I'll wait... So, did you like it? Show your love NOW by pitching in some funds to get me and my solo play Phone Whore to the 2013 Edinburgh Fringe Festival. Read all about it by clicking on the Indiegogo button below.

CALL OF THE DAY: The return of The Tickler

A seven-minute request, I dug out the card... "tickling" was all it said. I turned it over. My god. The last time I talked to this guy was in May of 2010. MAY OF 2010. Over a year and a half previously. Did he really request me by name?! "Yeah, he totally did!" The dispatcher is kind of amazed, too. When the caller gets on the phone, I have to be less specific...

It's been a while, huh?
"Yes, it has. I, um, I have to admit that I've called a few times since the last time, asking for you, but our times never matched."
Wow.... well, I'm glad you found me!
"Me too! I remembered you very clearly. You have a wonderful laugh."

Since then, he's gone through a few periods with a call a week, and then months at a time with no calls at all. I dunno, these guys. I think it's either shame or the previous month's phone charges that makes them go cold turkey every now and then. Plus the last time I talked with The Tickler, I was recovering from a cold, which meant that I couldn't laugh the way that he liked without launching off into a coughing fit. It wasn't the best call, in other words, but I hope he'll be back.
He sets up his scenarios very carefully. Usually he likes me to start in positions of authority, like a therapist or a sexologist, and I ask him serious in-depth questions about his fetish while he tickles me (mostly my feet) and makes me lose my professional demeanor. He himself is also very articulate; I think he enjoys my creative use of academic/therapy jargon.

He also likes to bring multiple female characters into the scene, to the point where I feel like I deserve a fucking Phone Sex Academy Award for most parts played on one call. One time he had me being two women tormenting two _other_ women, alternating between the tickling noises ("koochi koochi koochi") and the full-out belly laugh that he enjoys so much. Throughout he was being very controlled and quiet-spoken as usual, but finally at the end he yelled, and I quote, "JESUS MARY MOTHER OF GOD I WANT TO BE FUCKING YOU RIGHT NOW".

Ha ha ha. He never swears or even talks about genitalia. I made him lose it bad. Heh.


"YOU SHOULD WRITE A PLAY," THEY SAID. So I did. Help get Phone Whore to the 2013 Edinburgh Fringe Festival by donating TODAY. Read all about it by clicking on the Indiegogo button below.

It’s in the cards: the administrivia of phone sex


I reached 800 callers this week. That means that 800 different, individual men have called me for help in getting off, over the last three years and nine months. I realize that's not many, as far as the industry goes, but it's about as many as can comfortably fit in my card box.

I started out with a box that my checks came in, partly because that's what I had on hand, and partly because I think I may have still had some wishful thinking that I wouldn't be doing the work for long. When I reached capacity on the check box and was just hitting my stride, that's when I went ahead and invested in a proper card file box, and the little alphabetized dividers, too. By now the dividers are getting a little frayed, but otherwise, very secretarial, huh?

DSC01296.edit copy

My format is this: On the front, upper left, their unique ID number. Next to that, their first name and initial. Below that, my stats, if they differ from my usual: actual age, eye and hair color, 42DDD (six inches smaller than my real band size), 5'9" (one inch shorter than my actual height, does 5'10" sound intimidatingly taller than 5'9", or am I just making shit up?). But if they want me to be 58 years old, or be a petite brunette, I write that down. Underneath that, what they want, with addenda, if it changes over time. Their state. Their birthday, if they tell it to me. Anything that might help me get a read on them and what they like to hear.


The back of R.'s first card, before I knew how much was coming...


The back of R.'s most recent card. He calls a lot.

Most of the callers only have one card each, but my regulars have two cards or more, paper-clipped together as time goes on. You can see the tops of the clips in the picture. The title of Most Cards is currently shared between two regulars, each of whom has six cards in their stack. A., one of my whiniest mommyfuckers, has racked up 216 calls, beginning May 16, 2009, while R, a cheerful butt-sniffer, has 215 calls, starting April 24, 2009.  That's an average of about five calls per month.

Back then, I didn't know that my regulars could be so, well, regular. It is obvious, from the way I started the first card that I had no concept of what this work would entail: at the beginning, my writing is huge and spacious, taking up lots of room. All of the cards I started in the first couple of months were probably like that. But there on those two callers' cards, by the time I'd taken their calls for a few weeks, I started shrinking my handwriting down, save space, save paper, and now the formatting is all the same: two columns per side, top to bottom, 12 or 13 entries per column.

Doesn't matter how tightly I scribble now, I'm running out of room. 800 cards take up a lot of room. At a certain point, probably in the next six months, I will need to buy another box, or at least a bigger one, and when I think about that purchase point, I have to force myself not to apply any significance or symbolism or measure of my intentions to keep going, to keep building my caller files. Or, you know, maybe, to not.


OOOH, PICTURES! Mostly, though, I just use my words, as you will see if you poke around in this blog... Like it? Well, show your love NOW by pitching in some funds to get me and my solo play Phone Whore to the 2013 Edinburgh Fringe Festival. Read all about it by clicking on the Indiegogo button below.

CALL OF THE DAY: color commentary at the Perv Bowl

Whenever I go on tour and become less available, he will forget me, but when I'm on call a lot, he's definitely a regular. His voice is mild, very low-affect, even when he's turned on. He likes to bring me in with him and his wife, Lorraine, and "make her be a slut", i.e. eat my pussy, suck and fuck lots of fat cock and doggie dick—bet you didn't know that was a slut requirement!—and then he fucks her at the very end and comes when I describe how he's not big enough for a fucked-out jizz-filled hole like that.

What's creatively interesting for me with his calls is that I'm "talking to" two different people: him and his wife, and mostly it's his wife. See, "in scene" he talks about her in the third person, as though she's right there, putting on a show, doing raunchy things to or for me and other people and critters and some outrageously designed sex toy. I take my cues from him, so I talk about her in the third person, too, and we end up sounding like play-by-play color commentary at some kind of Perv-Bowl sport-fucking competition ("look at Lorraine go, she cannot keep her hands off of them!" "Yeah, and that pussy is so big, damn, it's gonna take a lot bigger man than you to satisfy her!").

And then he'll switch hats and he's more overtly the director of the scene, and he feeds me the next lines or the next action, i.e. "I think you should get over there and sit on her face" or "ask her how many men she fucked yesterday". (The last time he told me to do that, I laughed really bitchily and said, "Uh-oh, SHE CAN'T REMEMBER.")

Other than how readily he shifts between perspective during the call, there is nothing particularly new in his scenes: threesomes, domming, BBC, TP ("tiny penis" fantasies), lesbo action, beastie, and cuckolding. There's just a LOT of it. There's just... fuckin' ALL of it. He likes a nice diverse spread!

And you know what else? It's unusual for a caller to fantasize about his actual partner. He likes thinking that Lorraine is a hot fuckin' slut, and that's... kinda sweet.


DON'T YOU WISH THERE WAS A PERV BOWL? My performances are, kind of. Show your love NOW by pitching in some funds to get me and my solo play Phone Whore to the 2013 Edinburgh Fringe Festival. Read all about it by clicking on the Indiegogo button below.

CALL OF THE DAY: extreme subs and silliness

He is one of my extreme bottoms. I don't get many of those in real life, but I probably could if I wanted to, and I think it would surprise absolutely no one to know to know that I do a pretty decent domme impression when necessary. People I meet in person frequently assume that I am totally a top, based on my physicality (big, tall, butchy), but even over the phone, I have a few qualities that help: Impressive voice. Big vocabulary. Emotive skill. Ease in making shit up.

So. My basic vocal skills ensure that the dispatchers channel a fair volume of callers who are looking for really abusive domming, like, really mean, degrading stuff—like what my awful Extreme Top does, but from a woman! Ooooh, subversive! I personally am not into humiliation or degradation, in either direction, but the effect on people who ARE into it is fascinating. And doing it is interesting, actually, from an improv point of view, to see just how long I can spew before I need to actually breathe. That's my approach to extreme domming over the phone: flood them with bile and bitchery, overwhelm them with it, Shock and Awe, baby! It's stream of consciousness with all the parental filters off and the obscenity load ON.

The only problem with that approach is that it is stream of consciousness and you can't really control what's in that stream, even when he's a regular like this guy, even when I know exactly what he wants. I told him to stick two fingers in his ass and lick them clean. And I, a product of my culture, what did I hear myself say at one point?

"I don't care if you can taste your own shit, that's the fucking point, mmm, lick it up, bitch, NOM NOM NOM."


I did not just use Internet-speak at one of my subs.



DELICIOUS, HUH? Want some more? Because there are totally more blog posts lying around, go ahead, take a look, I'll wait... Good stuff, huh? Show your love NOW by pitching in some funds to get me and my solo play Phone Whore to the 2013 Edinburgh Fringe Festival. Read all about it by clicking on the Indiegogo button below.

Mysteries of the One-Minute Men

People ask me all the time what's the longest call I've ever taken. (Answer: a three-and-a-half-hour cuckolding call, during which I talked almost the entire time. This guy, in fact.) While that is unusual, I do get my share of what I consider longer calls: 30, 45 minutes, occasionally hour-long sessions. Those can be fun, but they fall within my experience of sexual encounters and/or relationship-building encounters. Whatever sexual content is going on, there is conversation, there is back-and-forth, there is storytelling and some theatrical aspect to it. Nothing out of the ordinary for me, in other words.

No one's ever asked what's the shortest call I've ever taken.

One minute, 15 seconds.

This was a two-girl call where we were supposed to laugh at his tiny penis. We had a few teasing lines and then, boop, he was done. "Was that it?" the other girl asked; she was a new girl. "Yep," I said, looking at his index card, which had a string of 1.5 minutes noted all the way down the side. "That's what he does."

That's not the only One-Minute Man in my card box, not by a long shot. Recently I have been getting a guy whose calls all last between 1.5 and 2 minutes. He asks me a couple of questions, like whether I've ever done it with another girl, I have time to do a 30-second description of her pussy or the vibrator or whatever, and that's it.

So when I say "One-Minute Man", I'm not talking about wrong numbers or the rare occasion where the caller just doesn't like my voice and asks for another girl. I'm talking about there's a beginning, an "oh my god, I'm coming!" and a very distinct end. These are the calls that FASCINATE me. I mean, what the hell is that about?! Because there is no time for sex content. That's usually about how long I take to go through introductions and describe my measurements and my hair color.

The standard wisdom is that these guys are cheapskates. They get themselves jacked up on their own, looking at porn or whatever, and then they call up at the last minute for the finishing live-girl touch. I'll buy the cheapskate hypothesis, but only partially. Because these guys probably could get there on their own; they're really close! If sex is a journey and orgasm is the destination, these guys have landed at the airport, went through customs, and bought the postcards, you know? So that doesn't answer the question of why, for these guys, even call in at all?

The guy who likes two girls teasing? He's a special case. He clearly enjoys the humiliation, but he's super-sensitive to it. So 60 seconds of intensely personal talk about his tiny dick, that's over-stimulation to a delicate flower like him.

For the most part, I think these One-Minute Men are exhibitionists of a very particular sort. They want someone to witness and appreciate the money shot, that's the part that pushes them over. I personally am more of a long-form exhibitionist; I like to show off the process and all of the interesting parts. And of course, as a talker, I like a nice, drawn-out verbal build. But if a witnessed ending is the part that's important to them, if that's the thing that revs their motor, then there's really no need for anyone to be around for any longer than that. The fact that it saves money is the perk, not the point.


THANKS FOR READING! Browse around some more, I'll wait... So, did you like it? Show your love NOW by pitching in some funds to get me and my solo play Phone Whore to the 2013 Edinburgh Fringe Festival. Read all about it by clicking on the Indiegogo button below.

CALL OF THE DAY: the cream-pie cookbook

He is extremely articulate and polite, and frankly doesn't sound like he loses control that often, in sex or in anything. He is also pretty specific in his phone-sex tastes: he likes his girls big and he likes them after everyone else has had a chance at them. So I give it to him, in juicy, drippy detail. He uses that cream pie to lube up, and then gives it to me in the ass.

Simple plot, right? But the devil is in the details, and the details are the spin. How many guys did I have and did I enjoy it? How am I feeling afterward? Am I embarrassed or proud of my work? What exactly does my plowed-up pussy look like, and how does he really feel about seeing it? What parts exactly about sliding into a pre-fucked cunt are exciting to him, and why? How long does he spend in there? What does he imagine it feels like? The answers to these questions, which are flying past in my head, barely breaching the surface in the middle of the frenzy.... Added up, these answers are what makes the difference between a proud boyfriend and a contemptuous participant in a gangbang. That is not a mistake you want to make, in either direction.

Just because I can lay out those questions and considerations in a list up there doesn't mean that's how I present them. I don't get those answers overtly or all at once, no. These are data points that I have stockpiled over time, over maybe 20 calls with him over the last two and a half years. I don't talk to him that often, see, so his preferences don't even have the benefit of frequent repetition to help me remember them. Every time there are those few notes on his index card—BBW, cream pie—plus some rattling little half-echoes in my mind and a painstaking crosscheck-and-verification process that is delicate in my head and sleazy in my mouth.

Thankfully, his voice and manner are very distinctive, which helps to re-orient me very quickly to him. Fuck, he is so precise! Even his orgasm sounds fairly well contained. Afterward, I crack a joke about cleaning up. It's another assay into information-gathering, actually; some of my cream-pie guys do like clean-up duty, and I can't remember if he's one of them. Framing the option as a joke gives me plausible deniability that I meant it, and gives him an opportunity to take it.

He doesn't. No, he laughs right along with me. "I don't think I could actually do that," he says. "In real life that would be too gross."

O-kayyyy. Add that note to the card.


DELICIOUS, HUH? Want some more? Because there are totally more blog posts lying around, go ahead, take a look, I'll wait... Good stuff, huh? Show your love NOW by pitching in some funds to get me and my solo play Phone Whore to the 2013 Edinburgh Fringe Festival. Read all about it by clicking on the Indiegogo button below.

CALL OF THE DAY: He’s a back-door man

He's one of my nicer doms, and one of my favorite callers, period. His preferred scenarios are the doctor's office (chronic orgasmic malfunction, you know, it takes a lot of treatment) or the supervisor's office in a Eastern European factory; our accents are SO BAD that if there's time at the end we usually end up busting up laughing at each other.

He really is a lot of fun to work with, but that's not the only reason why I like playing with him. It's the little glimpses of his real sexual life and thought processes that he occasionally lets slip. Once, during a particularly hard period for him, he told me that he was lonely, his voice so earnest and trembling that I nearly cried. He has sometimes expressed feelings of guilt about wanting to dominate women; I've told him that yes, there are women out there who want that, and as long as you're checking in with them, you're good.

Today we were back at the factory with our cheesy Slavic accents, but then he did something unprecedented: he asked me to stick a finger in his ass. Okay! Phwooop! And he came like a motherfucker (I don't think he had his finger in his own ass, it was just the thought).

Afterward he told me that he had never thought about that as something he could or should have done to him, as a dominant man, but last weekend he was with a girl and she was giving him a handjob and started playing around back there.

"OH MY GOD," was how he put it. "Forty-one years old and I just learned something spectacular."

YAY! I thought (I have always been an eloquent advocate for ass play, in all directions.) Have you ever had a girl lick your asshole?


Okay, since you're exploring ass play, wash your ass well, find that girl, and tell her to rim you out. You can thank me later.


THANKS FOR READING! Browse around some more, I'll wait... So, did you like it? Show your love NOW by pitching in some funds to get me and my solo play Phone Whore to the 2013 Edinburgh Fringe Festival. Read all about it by clicking on the Indiegogo button below.

The lure of green: cash and envy and I WANNA ROLL IN IT

I'll be honest with you: I don't make a lot of money from phone sex. I'm good, but it has been a constant struggle to stay afloat.

I do know of other people doing phone work, and also other forms of sex work, who are making bank, though. ("Bank" in this context = "at least twice as much as I am making", which isn't saying much, but it's all relative, this is my point.) I hear from friends and acquaintances in the biz, you better believe it. One girlfriend, the one who helped me put together my first pro-domme listing a few weeks ago, she does escort work, and she seems to be making a comfortable living doing five or six sessions per week, and then taking two months off to go on international trips paid for by her "sugar daddies". One new friend on FB works the male side, doing high-end, online and phone cash domination on guys, and he recently mentioned to me in passing that someone—more than one person, it sounds like—bought one of his three-minute videos for 10k.

Grggh. I can feel the envy building up in the back of my throat. And you know what I do?


That's right. I swallow it.

I don't allow myself to spend a lot of time being envious of my colleagues' financial success. Because the plain fact of the matter is that I am not working hard enough to get that much ahead in any field of sex work. My friends have been putting in the work, developing their marketing and loyal customers, and that shit takes more time than I have to give right now.

That doesn't mean that I'm not constantly exploring other sexy-time ways to make money—pro-domme work! custom typewritten erotica with online ordering!—income streams that I think will fit well with the life I'm trying to create. Nor does it mean that I'm being casual about the job that I've got. After seven months of touring, I am working my way back to being on call between 14 to 18 hours a day, and when the calls come in, I give the best phone that I can. But I know the limitations I have to work with. This is a dispatch company, and I have nothing to do or say about the marketing, so really, my job is just to stay at home and wait for the phone to ring.

I've known from the beginning that phone sex wasn't the career that I wanted to follow.  Yes, it's a good match for my skills and aptitudes but at the heart of it, phone sex is a job, like any other, the "day job" that so many performers hold down, the sort of thing that pays (barely) the bills and gives me (barely) enough room to try to make things work in performance and writing. The challenge about those situations is that you can't really stay "in balance" for ever.

I've been straddling the divide for a few years, but the truth is, both phone sex and performance work are demanding professions, and I can't do justice to my earning potential in either as long as I'm stretched out wide over that abyss, tippy-toes holding on to both sides, afraid to push off with one foot and just GO HARD.

So, as much as I want to roll in some money at some point soon, I don't think it's going to be money from phone sex. The grass always looks greener, right? I have gotten up close, and I see the work that's involved, and I just... I want to put that work somewhere else.


MONEY'S TIGHT, BUT YOU CAN HELP. My touring can't stop just because funds are running low. Browse around the site, and then show your love NOW by pitching in some funds to get me and my solo play Phone Whore to the 2013 Edinburgh Fringe Festival. Read all about it by clicking on the Indiegogo button below.

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