Author: camerynmoore

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Call of the Day: Two Girls, One Plate, and a Steaming Douchecanoe

Extreme Top. I've talked about him before, and what a foaming douchenozzle he is, from a customer-service point of view. Let me reiterate: I am not bothered by the content of his calls, but his attitude. I usually can handle it. Mostly. But this last call put me right over the edge.

** he said he was drunk.

** "you've gotten to come a lot lately, now you need to make me come" (as if it was my greedy-pig fault that for at least the last ten calls he has ordered me to come as many as 20 times in a 45-minute period. You do the math. That shreds my vocal cords, the way he likes me to come.)

** "C'mon, honey, make daddy come" (as if there is a magic sequence of words that triggers his ejaculation, because FUCK THE MONEY I would say it within 10 minutes of the start of every call)


** "Honey, I really want to come." (I AM SURE YOU DO, but if you are shoving coke up your nose by the shovelful and/or getting drunk, you can't call a phone sex line, put your PSO on hold in the middle while you reload, and then BLAME HER BECAUSE YOU CAN'T FUCKING COME. I CANNOT FIGHT CHEMISTRY).

** "Make me come, baby" (I want to kill you and soak up your blood with a donut, IT WOULD BE THAT SWEET, GAAAAHHHHHHH.)

Do you understand? He was not doing this in the context of the scene, the fantasy. He was badgering his service provider, laying the entire responsibility on me for an I-can't-rub-one-out situation that is entirely his making.

After about 20 minutes of me talking about what a disgusting fuckpig I am—the usual stuff—he decides that he wants me to "degrade" my teenage daughters, sexually and scatalogically. Again, this is usual territory for him, and I know what he likes. Oh, yeah, I make them eat it up, my piss and shit, make them wallow in it, he's digging it, oh, god what a bad mother I am. "Baby, that's got me so hard." I think, well, they've eaten it from the source, what else can I do with it? I put it on a plate and make them eat it from that. You can almost hear the record scratch.

"Okay, now you're just getting weird."


"You're getting a little off-base."

Maybe I was a little snippy with my next comment: could you give me a little more guidance, then, daddy?

As soon as I heard him start to raise his voice, more than he usually does, that's when I lost it. I broke character, fell out of my terrified teen voice, and said, in my normal voice, except louder and more angrily: FUCK IT.

Call of the Day: Larry’s view on marriage

I am going to be digging back through some of my old Facebook posts for what I label Calls of the Day, just little snapshots of some of my more interesting encounters. Let's start the new series with this one, fresh off the phone...

Loyal readers of mine from Facebook may remember this regular of mine, an older gentleman from Alabama who charms the fucking socks off me every time we talk. He likes me to "talk dirty" for about a minute, to unleash a burst of panty-sniffing, piss-drinking, ass-fucking profanity at him. He comes, and then we spend the rest of the call just... talking.

The first time he called me, we ended up discussing fertilizer and sunlight for his flowers (he's a dedicated gardener). Other times it's been the relative merits of Krystal Burgers to any other sliders available in his area, and how he'd love to have me rake his leaves naked and then he'd buy me some Krystal burgers for our date.  Things like that.

I'm always really glad to hear from him, partly because he really is an old man, getting close to 70. (I know, because his birthday is in a couple of weeks. Jeezus, I know his birthday.) He has told me about some of his health problems, and frankly, I worry if I don't hear from him once a month. But I also love to talk with him because sometimes... he just comes up with stuff out of what feels like NOWHERE, that makes me feel even better about who he is as a person. I don't need to feel good about my callers, but I like to.

Yesterday, Larry gave me this: "You probably wouldn't guess this about me, darlin', but I read and study the Bible." Oh, well, that doesn't surprise me too much. "Well, this might get me into trouble with a lot of other people, but I don't think the Lord's view on marriage is what everyone thinks it is." Really. "Yes, now, all it says in the Bible is that when a man cleaves unto a woman, they are married in God's eyes. The Old Testament Jewish wedding, they didn't have any rabbi up there running a ceremony, they just got together in a tent and did it." Uh-huh.

"So really, I could go out and have sex with 12 women in a row and I'm married to each one of them." Uh-HUH. I think your wife might have something to say about that, Larry.

I love Larry.

making strange men come

At one point in my play Phone Whore, I spin out the list of things that I like about doing phone sex, and I admit that I like making random strange men come. "I really do enjoy the power," I say with a wry smile that I never  have to fake in a performance, because it is totally true.

I have always really, really enjoyed the power of making people come. This pre-dates my involvement in paid phone sex by decades. It's definitely not only phone sex, either. I get the thrill in video-chat encounters and face-to-face fucking, too. But yesterday I think I isolated the thing that gets me going, and it is in the voice, whatever else may be going on.

I suppose this is another thing that makes phone work a particularly good match for me: I love to make people audibly lose it. It's not an ego-stroke thing for me. It's not even a pleasure-giving mission, although I'm always glad to help and I'm happy when people feel good. It's... Wait. Let me start over.

Yesterday I made someone come. I got to watch, but mostly I was listening. His breath quickened, harsh and uneven, and his voice trembled as he approached release, went higher, and higher still as he lost his verbal abilities, gasped and stuttered, and then simply cried out, pleading for me to say the words that would let him go. Because it was for me to say.

(This is also true in paid phone sex too, but that is mostly a function of my being the one to watch the clock and pace the encounter. With this person, that is our arrangement. He comes when I say.)

And so I said it. Come for me. Come for me now. And he did, in a flurry of inchoate sound that pierced me right between my lungs, a sharp joy that left me breathless, that brought tears to my eyes as I listened to the rapture of his pure, unselfconscious core. Afterward, while he was catching his breath, I tried to explain. Maybe I was explaining as much to myself as to him. "I'm not religious or spiritual or woo-woo, really I'm not," I said, wiping my eyes with a little bit of embarrassment, "but I think that is my way of worship." I don't know what I'm worshiping, exactly, but I know, if I'm lucky, I get to worship every day.

So yeah, I do like to make strange men come. Sometimes it's a new guy, or maybe it's a favorite regular. Maybe it's someone I know well, or someone I just met and want to be closer. Doesn't matter, and now I know why: Even though the personal connections are different, and the moans and groans are different... it's all one core. I get to hear it, I get to see it. It is my privilege and honor and, yes, power to add fuel to that sacred fire. If I listen carefully, the path is clear, and at the end of it all, for just a few pure moments, the sounds of their wordless frenzied bliss will rush in to fill my heart.


nice guys sometimes finish first

I'm glad he keeps requesting me. He's a nice guy, not that it matters. Asshole money spends the same as nice-guy money, and I'm not being paid to care whether he's nice or not, I'm being paid to get him off. But it's nice that he's nice. When I was balancing hot plates of pancakes and endless cups of coffee as a waitress, it did make a difference whether I set them in front of a gentleman who thanked me nicely and asked how my evening classes were going, or in front of an asshole who, no matter what I did, I could tell from his scowl, was going to leave me a meager tip in a puddle of syrup.

It does make a difference, that he's nice and that he likes what I do. We've gotten into a comfortable routine, too: a little bit of pain and a whole lot of begging on my part. Occasionally he brings in a second girl or sets me in the doctor's office, but usually it's just pain and begging, and sometimes me comforting him afterward, if he mentions the shame I know he always feels. It's a routine. A hot, nasty routine. As hot and nasty as it is, it's easy to settle into it.

But this is totally not a face-to-face unpaid relationship, right? If he wants to try something else, he doesn't have to ask me to change, we don't have to have that awkward conversation if he doesn't want to or if I'm not doing the new thing right. He could just find someone else. But he doesn't, and I'm glad, because it lets us play.

His most recent kick is to have me put on a Slavic accent and talk about the factory back in the "old country" and how he used to be my supervisor and I fled the country and he tracked me down here and I still Owe Him.

Disclaimer: my Russian accent in English sucks. Bad. He could almost assuredly find a Eastern European phone sex operator somewhere else, who could probably give better details than I can about gritty factory work and oppressive supervisors. But he's a nice guy, and he doesn't care about the details that much. He doesn't care that my accent fades in and out like a bad henna dye job. He puts on his own bad accent and we play.

Accuracy, in fact, is a little distracting when we only have 10 minutes. Yesterday, when he asked me who I had given head to first as a teenager, I instantly popped out with "Sasha". That's a diminutive for Aleksandr, TOTALLY a common boy's name in Russia, and if I were going to be doling out blow jobs to neighbors in cramped, cabbage-smelling coop housing, Sasha—any number of Sashas—would very likely be a top contender. So I said, "Sasha." And he said, in a voice that was a little out of scene, "that's kind of a girly name." "Aleksandr," I amended hastily, and we got back into it.

Now, if he were an impatient, hypercritical bastard—phone sex's maple-syrup-tip-dipping equivalent—he might have dropped me then, or at any point these last few months, for not getting it exactly right. But he's not that guy. He knows I understand the dynamic he's looking for, he likes my polyglot whimpering, and he knows that whatever thing he's bringing to the table for this call, I'll go right along with it. Because I'm that girl.

Slut Salon #2: the Stop-Hatin’ Edition

Yeah, this weekly phone check-in with my far-flung friends and fans is actually working out AMAZINGLY. Mona and Amy—both from Michigan, oddly enough—came out to last night's Slut Salon, and we had a great time!

As predicted by last week's salon participants, the conversation easily expanded to fill the new one-hour length. We started in New Orleans (background: I met Amy there when I joined the Krewe of Drunken Whores for a walking parade during 2011 Mardi Gras) and wound our way through Fetlife as an awesome online resource and community space for kinksters and sexually curious people (disclosure: Fetlife is a promotional sponsor of my tour, and they are AWESOME).

Pretty quickly we got to the question that I had wanted to discuss last night: who do you talk to about sex, and how does that work out for you? More and more I am struck by the feeling that I really do live in a sex-positive bubble, and that most people don't have space in their lives to discuss sex, even as adults. Mona and Amy had a lot to say on why talking about sex might be problematic for people, and what their own experiences have been in terms of being open with both old and new acquaintances, and what the various attitudes are, from envy to fear.

Made the jump toward the end to talking about woman-on-woman bitchiness around body size (that's called "fat hate" or fatphobia, y'all). Both Amy and I have had the experience of dancing and performing as larger women, and we talked about how other women's envy for one's perceived freedom from fear or restraint, in body size or sex or whatever sphere, often turns into horizontal hostility. "Why do you get to dance with your belly hanging out, or have as many lovers as you want, at your size? Why can't I do that? ... Well, if I can't have that freedom, no one can!"

So, yeah... this was almost an hour long and CHOCK full of good stuff. You can listen here...

Again, if you want to participate, take a look at my calendar here to see when the next Slut Salon is and then drop me a line at littleblackbookproductions@gmail.com to get the call-in details. There’s a four-person maximum, so sign up early if you see a date that works for you. I’m really enjoying getting to know you all!

Welcome to the Slut Salon!

Over the past year I have met a lot of awesome people all around North America. It's been one of the best parts of touring for me, but keeping up with an ever-widening circle of friends and fans has been a little overwhelming, until I hit on ... THE SLUT SALON! A weekly teleconference call, when my peeps and I get to hang out, ask and answer questions about all kinds of crap, get silly, and just generally catch up. (You'd think I'd get tired of talking on the phone, but I really don't!)

Christopher and Sabrina joined me last night for the inaugural Slut Salon, and wow, so much fun! We chatted about performance, art in public spaces, typewriters, community diversity, feline neurosis, client stigma... all in a half-hour! You can eavesdrop after the fact right here!

We all agreed that an hour will make for an even more satisfying gathering, but, yeah, we had a lot of fun! If you want to get in on the conversation, get to know me better, and hang out with some other Phone Whore friends, take a look at my calendar here to see when the next Slut Salon is and then drop me a line at littleblackbookproductions@gmail.com to get the call-in details.

There's a four-person maximum, so sign up early if you see a date that works for you. I'm looking forward to talking with y'all some more, or maybe for the first time!

All roads lead to ass: a decision tree for phone sex

People ask me all the time, "How do you DO that stuff? I mean, How do you actually come UP with all of it?" Some people honestly think there is a script for what I do, something that all PSOs have read and memorized. I think other people imagine my material coming from something more like a cookbook, The Joy of Sex crossed with The Joy of Cooking crossed with a story slam crossed with Iron Chef (the Japanese version, not the American version), and so when guys call, I just flip through and find the key ingredients that they give me and whip up something delicious, just like that!

Well, it's not like that. I mean, in public I talk like I'm the queen of improv, and anyway, my potty mouth covers any eventuality, and that's partly true. But the reality is that I have developed a keen ear for verbal cues, and based on those cues, my decision tree is very well-trimmed.

I started thinking about this in earnest a couple of weeks ago, because someone asked me again how I do it. And I had to laugh when I started making a visual representation of the process. Here it is...

I am not saying there are not other calls that I get. I am saying that a majority of my calls fall along this path (yes, BBC and the she-male stuff, too; both are variations on "butt sex in HIS butt" angle).

In short, all roads lead to ass sex.

I knew it

*** ADDENDUM, 12/5/12: If I ever manage to get to a sex workers' conference, or get accepted to speak at a Geek Night somewhere, this chart will be the opening Powerpoint slide of my presentation. I am certain there are more ways to look at phone-sex work and material relationally (à la Indexed or New Math). Stay tuned for that!

Two girls, one sub

"Do you ever talk to girls?"

This question, or variations of it, is excruciatingly common after performances of Phone Whore. Up until last week, the answer was always "no". I can count on two fingers the number of calls that had women there in the room, and in neither case did the woman want to be there. One of them was pathologically shy and obviously pressured into listening in on the call, while the other was so strung out on some kind of drug that she could barely place three words of sense side by side. I do not count that talking with her.

People ask me why more women don't call, and I shovel some shit about the sexual economies of the straight world and the lesbian/bi world, and then say "I don't really know" and we all agree to move on. It's not really shit I'm shoveling, I do believe what I'm saying and I spend time thinking about it, but really, I'm much more interested in WHY SO MANY PEOPLE ASK ME THAT QUESTION.

And I have theories, oh lord yes, because most of the people asking that question are men, and I also have these incredibly strong urges to leap on top of my sturdy stage armchair and throw stale bread at them and shout, "WHAT IS IT WITH YOU GUYS AND THAT GIRL-ON-GIRL ACTION THING?!?"

But I can't do that, because that would be judgy and weird and a waste of good stage toast, so I politely make a joke and answer the question in that side-stepping way and talk about the two calls I've had with girls in them, and why they felt so yucky to take.

But now, ladies and gentlemen, and especially gentlemen, there have been three calls, and this last one, the one I took a week ago, felt GREAT.

For starters, it wasn't girl-on-girl, so much as girl-with-girl-on-guy, and I don't mean two giggling co-eds, one on each side. Dude, we were fuckin' TAG-TEAMING the caller, in this sort of bitchy-dom-duo. She was sick, or weak, and so couldn't administer anything herself, but she gave a slightly malicious laugh after each command I issued her partner, to pull up those panties or spank his own balls or bend over and spread those ass cheeks. We joined easily in taunting him about his tiny dick, and she agreed when I suggested that Cocksucker Red might be a better shade of lipstick for him than whatever princess-y pink color he was currently wearing.

At the end of the call, which covered all of that and a fairly mammoth dildo, the caller could barely breathe, but he didn't have to. His mistress thanked me and I congratulated her on finding such a slutty sissy boy.

Gentlemen, I'm pretty sure that's not the kind of girl-on-girl action you're hoping I'll tell you someday. Tough. That's the kind of girl-on-girl action I want.


There is no formula for which days will be slow. Some are obvious, like Super Bowl Sunday or Christmas (and even so, some operators will make bank on those days). But I can't even begin to guess at the variables going into the collective hormonal ebb and flow that made that Wednesday three weeks ago a bangin' phone party, and this Wednesday deader than a ... I don't know what. A really dead thing, that coincidentally is not making me any money lying there dead.

It's not a day off, though, mind you, because I still can't leave the house. So I fill the day with other stuff. Calling up colleges and venues to book my show, knowing that any gigs I get aren't going to help me now, but hoping to stabilize the income stream down the road, at least. Doing dishes that stacked up from the last two days, when there were some calls that interrupted my housework. Reading, petting the cat, planning my actual vacation, occasionally stepping outside for five minutes of pale wintry sunshine.

long cat doesn't mind. long cat is long and very content with the silence. Even after more than a year with his phone-sex mom, long cat is disturbed by phone sex, starting with the loud ring of the landline and right on through to all the sound effects and moans I have to do. When he leaps off the bed with a chirp and stalks out the door, I imagine that his backward glance at me is fully loaded with disapproval. Too bad, long cat. Where do you think your Meow Mix comes from?

On slow days, the occasional phone ring becomes startling. It's easy for me to forget why exactly I'm lying here, card file next to my left elbow, phone within reach. I'm memorizing lines or Facebooking or emailing or playing online Boggle. When the phone rings, my brain explodes for one startling moment, and then I have a second ring in which to pull myself together. "Hi, this is Cameryn... yes, I'm ready."

Hastily digging out the customer card, or piecing together my traits for a new guy--my age, my tit size, my ass, my voice--I'm reminded what it is I do for money. I'm available to talk about sex on demand. But if for one day demand is low, then it's harder for me to jump.

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