Author: camerynmoore

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CALL OF THE DAY: the articulate sissy

The dispatcher gives me his name and customer number, seven minutes, and for once I find the card quickly. "I think he likes ass play," she says. My notes read "PEGGING, DOUBLESTUFF, BBC." Yes, I would say he likes ass play. But he's not a regular and I haven't talked to him recently enough to remember straight off the top how he likes his ass play.

There are many ways to get your butt filled, many tones that a domme could adopt, and you don't want to fuck that up, no. There is a big difference between loving Mommy with a non-threatening, totally loving strap-on and angry Madame with 50 well-hung bikers pounding down the door. So I had to do a little exploring, without letting him know that I was exploring.. Some of you have asked how I figure out what callers want, especially in a shorter call? What follows is one approach...

So what are you doing on this fine evening, Joe?

"Lying on my bed talking to my mistress." (Ah-hah. I can take a slightly sterner tack...)

And what are you doing with your hands?

"Playing with my man-clit." (Going across the gender lines; someone is going to be my little slut.)

I see. And do you have anything there with you that I should know about?

"Well, I have two 8-inch dildos attached to a floor stand, one at pussy height and one at mouth height. I've got on a shoulder-length red wig, and I'm wearing a yellow bra with D-cup tits in it and matching yellow panties."

And there you have it: 20 seconds of conversation, yielding up material for hours. I jot a few more notes on the card, to save myself the stress next time. It helps when they're sissy-boys. They always want to show off.


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Five seconds of forever

They say one of the best ways to build rapport when talking with someone is to match their speaking patterns, and then move it in the mood you want it to go. In phone sex, I have certainly found that to be true. Hell, I've found it to be essential. That's why I listen so fucking closely as soon as they pick up the phone, and I try not to space out on calls. Because I'm listening for speaking patterns. I'm listening for mood.

Do they sound rough or genteel? Nervous or calm and ready for me? Bored or already half-way there? I can hear all that in the first few seconds, and adjust quickly. If they sound rough, I am not going to pull out the long words, and I will start dropping the F-bombs earlier than usual. If they're nervous, I pull back, keep it a little delicate, not talk too quickly; if they're obviously young as well, I might bring out a "honey" or a "sweetie" to see how they respond. If they're bored, I do NOT match that, I tease them about it and instantly switch gears up to lively/funny. But I'm still starting with what I hear from them, and respond to that.

And if they don't talk at all, then... well.

That is a different thing.

I had a non-talker last week, three half-hour sessions in one night, and then a requested half-hour call the following night. He wasn't completely silent, but he only answered my questions with long pauses, followed by a "yes" or "no". So I slowed down. Way. Down. And found myself, accidentally, wandering into therapist territory.

The fantasy that emerged was one of the more "taboo" ones, nothing I hadn't heard before, not one of the most graphic or violent ones that I've heard, not by a long shot, but still something that most people would hesitate to share even with a loved one or anyone but a very understanding and kink-positive therapist. He clearly felt bad about it, and didn't really want to talk about it. For a total of two hours he didn't want to talk about it.

So I went slow. I made neutral listening noises, asked questions, and waited, sometimes five seconds or more, for the answers. (Don't think that's a long pause in a sexual conversation? You try counting it out: one-one-thousand-two-one-thousand-three... yeah. THAT'S A LONG PAUSE.) He didn't want to go any faster. We hardly got to any graphic details at all. He didn't come at the end of any of the calls. Occasionally I spoke in a meta way about the fantasy—I spoke about what's in the head, about real world—waiting, hesitating, to see if that's what he wanted to do. Sometimes it was, sometimes it wasn't. It felt as if he was standing on a strung-tight rope, and I didn't know whether he wanted me to join him up there or wait on the ground with the safety net.

Towards the end of the last call, I got uneasy. He talked a little more, and sounded despairing. His line of work is a rough one, his mother died recently, and he said, "I probably won't be talking to you again," not in a keeping-track-of-unnecessary-expenditures way. And all I could say was, well, you know where to find me if you want to talk some more.








YEAH, SOMETIMES PHONE SEX GETS SERIOUS. And sometimes it's silly, just like face-to-face sex. Check out my other posts, and then show some love by contributing to get me and my solo play Phone Whore to the 2013 Edinburgh Fringe Festival. Read all about it and DONATE at the Indiegogo page HERE.

CALL OF THE DAY: “look at my tee-tee, Mommy!”

We only talk every two or three months, when he's on a business trip and staying in a hotel. I would love to see the face of the hotel staff member who walks by his room right when he's getting really ramped up, because he's a mommyfucker on the very young end; I would place him at 2 years old, based on the pitch of his "play voice" and the vocabulary he uses. He tells me, in a very petulant tone, what he wants to do ("mommy, I wanna look at your butthole!"); I can almost hear him stomp his feet if I don't respond the right way. He also likes me to baby-talk to him about his dick ("mommy, look at my tee-tee!" "I know, baby, you're having so much fun with your ding dong, aren't you?").

When I first started talking to him, I actually felt challenged, because he never followed through with any particular train of thought. It felt like he was just blipping around, poking at different body parts, saying things because he liked the way they sounded, demanding things to assert himself, not because he was particularly attracted to them. That irritated me, until the day I realized that ACTUALLY the way he was behaving was a pretty good portrayal of a two-year-old, whether he was being intentional about it or not. So I thought I'd try just interacting with him as if he is really two years old, and that seems to work out just fine.

I think I've written about him before, because he is such a joy to play with, laughing unselfconsciously after every call and thanking me so warmly for what I do. I guess that's what let me feel comfortable enough one day, during our post-orgasm cool-down, to ask him, outright: have you always had this fantasy of being such a little boy? "Always. I had a very strange childhood. I didn't get a lot of unconditional love. So now, you know, it's just so wonderful to go to a place where it doesn't matter what I do or what I want, I can have it."


DID YOU LIKE THAT? 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 and DONATE at the Indiegogo page HERE.

CALL OF THE DAY: the working-class butt slut

He's not a regular, more of a potential regular. We've talked twice in the past six weeks, and I think he digs my style enough that he could start requesting me. I hope he does, because he's a fun one, entering into both the conversation and our scene with irresistible gusto. And his voice is so distinctive that I don't even need to look at his card to remember his thing: he likes his fucking ass pegged. Fucking hard. He likes to be a fucking slut for me, just spread his fucking legs and take a big fucking strap-on.

Those are his words, not mine.

He has a total working-class New York accent, see, plus he says "fucking" literally every other word. This is a refreshing change for me. Most of the guys who call up wanting me to fuck them, they go the sissy-boy and/or submissive route, and they change personalities mid-stream. I can hear it in their voices when they go into their sub headspace.

This guy, though. He's not a sub. He's not even a bossy bottom. I don't think he even knows those words. He just wants to get fucked, and he'll tell me how to do it. He stays brash and trashy and he doesn't miss a fucking beat. He'll spend the first five minutes of his call talking about union politics where he works, the fucking scheduling and the fucking shop steward and the decent fucking overtime. He's been working at that warehouse for close to 20 years, he's got some seniority there, I guess, so he makes, he says, "good fucking money", and he also received a settlement last year for a workplace injury, which means he need to be careful during our calls not to "throw my fucking hip out again". He lets me know the money things matter-of-factly, in the context of explaining how he can spend money on phone sex. And then we spend the rest of the time talking about what dirty fucking sluts we both are.

It's nice to know that I can still get calls like his, calls that surprise the fuck out of me, for whatever reason. I actually enjoy that experience. It points out where I'm still drawing lines in my own head, and right there, during the call, I get to feel them erased.

It gives me more fucking room, in my sexual imagination, you know? And that's a fucking sweet deal.


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 and DONATE at the Indiegogo page HERE.

CALL OF THE DAY: some day his calls will stop and that will be a very sad day

I call him my gardening sweetheart from Alabama (I've written about him previously here), and he stresses me out almost more than any other caller. Not for what we talk about doing during our monthly calls, but for the fact that he is clearly old and ailing and the longer I stay with this company the more likely it is that someday I am going to look up and say, "Oh. L hasn't called in five months. He's probably dead." He is, in fact, the one caller who I think most about when I'm not on the phone with him, and it's mostly because I'm afraid that I'm never going to hear from him again, and that freaks me out.

L knows I travel around, and in the past he has included in our little fantasies the idea of taking me on a date for Krystal Burgers, which I guess are a thing down there. Last week, though, he said he would love to take me to the Top of the River; it's a catfish restaurant "on the other side of town, and girl, that fish is jumpin' around on your plate, it's so fresh!" I went and Googled it, and that, folks, is a Sit-Down Restaurant. I think he's getting serious.

I guess today I was just feeling a little sentimental, so consider this a sort of Best Of post celebrating my gardening sweetheart from Alabama...


Whether I'm halfway through my tour or just got started, L can't ever believe that I'm still not home yet. "You need to be nice and warm in your own bed, darlin'!" he said during one call in September. "Why are you still on the road? Good Lord! Fall's comin' on and it's gettin' cool, and you're gonna freeze those pretty tits off and honey, that's just gonna look strange."


"I thought about you this morning. When I woke up I was thinking about you sitting down on my face, with that pretty little asshole right there. And then I did something real bad."


"I went out and raked the leaves."

[faking a scandalized tone while laughing is not easy] Oh my god!

"Yup. And then you know what I did next?"


"I BURNED them."

[faking shock] L, how could you?

"Well, there was a lot of leaves."


L is pretty omnivorous when it comes to sex and kink, an omniperv, if you will. Once he asked me what kind of panties I was wearing. I told him—lies, because it's too early in the day for me to be wearing anything—and then he said, "Well, earlier I had on a thong, white with black polka dots. But then I got cold. So I went in and put on some satin granny panties, and my blue jeans. It's 83 degrees and the sun ain't out, I get cold!"

I asked him where he gets his panties, he said. "Kohl's."

I LOVE the video in my head of his shopping expeditions to Kohl's.


DID YOU LIKE THAT? Feel free to browse around among all my posts, and then show some appreciation by contributing to get me and my solo play Phone Whore to the 2013 Edinburgh Fringe Festival. Read all about it and DONATE at the Indiegogo page HERE.


CALL OF THE DAY: “do you know about the Castro?”

He doesn't request me or call very often, but his set-up is so specific that I have no problem remembering. Also he has what I think is an Australian accent.

ANYWAY, he spends the first few minutes talking about a girl—any girl, for a little while it was his best friend's younger sister, then it was Jennifer Love Hewitt—and then the rest of the time he talks about all the sex he has or wants to have with men to show her how much he loves this girl. I haven't figured out if this leap in logic makes it a fantasy of humiliated submission or of reverence, or maybe it's both. Or it's just a device to get to cock. It doesn't matter, I suppose. In our service relationship it functions very simply: by sucking cock "on behalf of" a girl, he's letting me know, and reminding/reassuring himself, that he's totally straight.

Lately he's been fixated on this girl on his co-ed soccer team; in the second-to-last call we had, he talked about how he was so turned on by some FB pictures of her that he had to call up a male escort. He only lives about 40 minutes away from San Francisco, so the escort told him to come to a club in the Castro. "It's a neighborhood in San Francisco that is all gay men. Do you know about the Castro?"

Um. Yes, honey. I know about the Castro.

But you wanna know the detail that, in my mind, puts this guy firmly into the untethered-to-reality category? The last call I did with him, he said that the escort called him back to invite him over for an actual date. Yes, baby. Because when a male escort is off the clock, he will naturally want to unwind with an insecure, horny guy who can only come when he's got a dick up his ass and "Jennifer, I love you" on his lips.


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 and DONATE at the Indiegogo page HERE.

“how would your clients feel if they knew…?”

I got a comment on a recent blog post, wondering how my clients would feel if they knew that I was drawing from our encounters for writing material. The tone of the comment felt slightly accusatory, as if in the commenter's mind the answer was quite obvious and also not very complimentary to me and my my ethics, as a writer and a phone sex operator.

I found myself feeling defensive, and ran this exchange by a couple of friends and a PSO colleague. I appreciated their reassurances, but the veiled accusation still stung, so I sat with it—am still sitting with it—to figure out why.

I like to think that maybe, if they heard how I talk about them, they would be okay. Maybe they'd be flattered that I even put that much energy into it, that I think about them after our calls are over, that I worry about them occasionally, that I enjoy our time together.

That's probably wishful thinking. But then, the question is purely rhetorical, about a situation that is so improbable as to be almost impossible. I don't attach names to stories. No one's anonymity is being breached. The truth is, most of the fantasies I deal with are NOT unique; they could be anyone out there. I sometimes include custom smut pieces in my Bang It Out collections, pieces that I wrote for one particular individual, to their tastes, and these customers KNOW that I might be sharing their smut with the world. How is that different?

Is it that I am an acknowledged performer/writer, as well as a sex worker? Does that automatically cast a shadow of suspicion over my motives going into any sexual encounter for money, that maybe I am doing this work just for the material? Believe me, if that was it, I would have enough material from just the first 12 months of phone work to publish—fiction and non-fiction—for life. Because a lot of my calls are repeats. Regulars. And even the ones that aren't regulars tend to fall into a certain well-defined set of categories. So if I were doing the phone work for "material", if I didn't like it for what it is, I wouldn't be doing it as long as I have. I would have been collecting "the material" a lot more assiduously, documenting it more thoroughly, and gotten the fuck out.

I started doing phone work because I was broke and desperate, started the Sidewalk Smut because I needed visibility at a festival. I keep doing the work because I like it, and I'm really fucking good at it. I strive with each phone call, each piece of abrupt erotica, to give my customers the best fantasy experience I can. And trust me: in the middle of those client interactions, I am not thinking about how well this will go over, what a great story this will make tomorrow on Facebook, how I need to remember this for the next book. No. I am hip-deep in the middle of someone else's sexy shit, trying to make it work for them.

I don't have time or bandwidth while I'm spinning out that story to make it pretty and social media-palatable, or to think about the deeper meaning or how it might make a good secondary narrative arc. That comes later, after I hang up, after I sign the smut and send it away. Assigning meaning comes when I take off the sex-work hat (I don't know what it is, but it's sexy) and put on the writer hat (not nearly as hot). Retroactively finding meaning and structure is one of the most important aspects of writing about real experiences, I think. But I do it AFTERWARD.

They say "write what you know". Even after nearly four years of doing phone work, two of sidewalk pornography, I certainly don't know everything, or really much of anything, in the grand scheme of things. BUT THIS IS WHAT I KNOW.  This is my life, too, and I am walking along those ethical boundaries with every piece I write. Every writer and performer who deals with real life confronts this question at some point or another: how do I draw from my life when it happens to be seriously laden and interlaced with the lives of others?

My answer: Thoughtfully. Respectfully. Authentically. With love.

And that's the best I can do.

CALL OF THE DAY: flattery will get you everywhere

I hate it when I get a new guy for only 7 minutes. That's not a lot of time to build rapport—10 minutes is ideal—and it's a tight time window in which to "get 'er done". I certainly don't expect a lot of chit-chat. But this guy, good lord! First of all, I'm a sucker for Southern accents. Can't help it. They didn't have accents where I grew up. And he can't seem to get over my voice.

"Are you putting that voice on for me, or do you do that for all the guys?"
- I'm not putting it on at all. I mean, I'm talking a little more quietly because it's the phone, but this is what it is. (Really it is!)
"Well, I already know I'm going to have to call back for a half hour, because you're GORGEOUS."

And then I ask how he was doing, and he says, "well, I'm as horny as a two-dicked billy goat." When I laugh, he says, "Oh my god, and a laugh like that, too? You are going to make me melt." That, dear sir, is the point. He ends up calling me back three more times—another 7 and two 10s. Yay, money! And yay for flirting and flattery, even when it's not needed! I can't count on ever hearing from him again, but dang if it isn't nice to feel appreciated.

Seriously, if you use phone-sex services, I don't care how good your operator already is, if you pull out a couple of sincere-sounding compliments, your service will be even better. We are not immune to human emotions.

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