Author: camerynmoore

Browsing all posts of camerynmoore

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.

Thwap-thwap-thwap: the sound of narcissism

The original notes on my card say "watching women jack off, woman on top, ass play?" That's what the dispatcher gave me, back in June of 09. And I still start off every call like that, with me running my fingers over my wet, wet pussy, tasting my fingers, slipping 'em in. But I know enough now to move away from that within the first 3 minutes to what he really wants:

He wants me to watch him jack off.

I could tell early on by the sound signals, the quiet when I'm talking about my junk versus the ever-accelerating thwap-thwap-thwap in the background when he's talking. I don't think he's losing his boner when I'm describing my pussy, it's just a holding pattern, so I'll go there to stretch things out for the full 8 to 10 minutes. But at 5 or 6 minutes I better be right there, talking about the fullness, the vein he says he has that pops out, the sensitive head, how big he is, how much it turns me on to watch him stroke himself, asking him to hold the phone up to his dick so I can really hear the slapping of lube and hand and slippery-smooth cock. (As much lotion as he apparently uses, his dick skin must be like silk...)

It's a stereophonic symphony, what I do with this guy, a hall of mirrors, his jack-off magnified by my moans. I have no idea if what I'm saying about his dick is really true, but in his mind it seems to be. It grows another inch or two, because I say I love to watch you work that _big_ cock. It gets a little pinker, a little vein-ier, I'm sure, because I mention those things, all these real physical aspects, affected in real life by the act of virtual observation.

He's a closet exhibitionist, in short, so I can relate, being myself an exhibitionist and a fairly blatant one at that. I'm tempted to feel a little sad for my brother in beat-off-age, but I don't. I'm giving him 10 minutes of my undivided, absolutely rapt attention, and that's way more than he must get in real life.

Post-tour funk (you can’t really dance to it)

Post-tour re-entry has been a little rough, people, I'm not gonna lie. It's been about 6 weeks, and I'm just starting to wake up again and face the day-to-day realities of doing full-time phone sex: bad body posture from slouching around on my bed all day (damn, and I left my lap desk in Montreal); the self-denial of needing to stay in most evenings and be available for calls; the interrupted dinners and cold pork chops all over again.

I'm living a sedentary life again, and that is a challenge. I didn't even think about how active my life was on tour while I was doing it, because it just had to be done. And then, boom, 6 to 8 hours a day walking around down to zero again. I mean, never mind all the face-to-face people time that I'm no longer getting! It's a surefire recipe for post-tour funk.

The late-night hours have taken some getting used to, too, even though I was definitely living the night life out on tour. It's one thing to be up until 3am because you're hanging out with other performers at a bar, and another thing altogether to be up until 3am because you're hoping against hope that you can slip one last call into the pay period.

It's taken time to let customers know that I'm here again. I knew heading out on tour that I'd be losing some regulars, but I didn't know how many and how much that would affect my pay. Some have managed to find me again, either while I was traveling or now that I'm back, but most have moved on and found another girl to help them get their rocks off, which I don't grudge at all. I'm good, yes, maybe even great, but I have no delusions that I'm irreplaceable.

I knew it, but it's still a hard truth to face: phone work is a totally different venue for my performing skills. It just is. A show has reviews, and blurbs in the program books, and a script that's all dog-eared, and people who are still staying in touch to find out when I'm bringing Phone Whore back to their city, or what my next play is about. Phone sex is ephemeral, and most of my fans last as long as it takes to accumulate a load of crusty socks and run them through the wash...

So, in case you were wondering where I've been, it's not that I'm not here, because I am. It's that I'm working on being back.

SMUT SLAM = erotica + poetry slam + my dirty mouth

Oh my god, there is so much coming up in the next few months, and yes, I will tell you about all of that soon, but I wanted to get you started with THIS...

Little Black Book Productions PRESENTS


Wednesday, February 23, 2011 * 6:30 to 9pm
Kennedy's Midtown, 42 Province St. Boston
...(5 minutes from Park Street or State St. T)
Admission: $5, 21+ only

You know what a poetry slam is, and maybe you know about story slams, too.** Now it's time for Boston's first-ever SMUT SLAM, a fast-paced night of storytelling based on real life, real lust, real sex. The theme for this SMUT SLAM is "surprise!"

SMUT SLAMMERS sign up on the night to tell a 5-minute piece of smut/sex/erotica, based on their real lives and ideally relating to the them of Surprise!, and a lucky eight to ten names will be drawn at random. There will be a team of 3 to 5 judges - interested amateurs, storytellers, theater people, sex workers, and anyone who loves sex stories. At intermission, slammers and audience alike have the opportunity to challenge Cameryn Moore, the Phone Whore, in a lightning-fast IRON SMUT ROUND, where participants receive 3 randomly chosen words or phrases and then must use those in two-minute smut fictional narratives created ON THE SPOT.


Don't worry. The audience is in for a good time at SMUT SLAM! Sit back and enjoy. All we ask is:
- No interrupting.
- No heckling.
- No necking.

Get complete rules at the Facebook event page!

Search-term syntax and finding the Phone Whore

... or, How the FUCK did they find me with THAT?!

I did this once before and it amused me to no end. Now that I'm trying to get back on the blog-horse, after 6 months on the road (more about that in subsequent posts), I thought I'd try it again as a nice re-entry point.

WordPress, you see, can tell you the terms that people use when they stumble across your blog.  And I gotta say, although I can't figure how to use this for marketing purposes, it cracks my shit up. Let's take a look at the breakdown for the last 7 days, shall we?

38 variations on Cameryn Moore, Phone Whore.
After doing 73 shows in 18 cities, with posters all over the fucking place, I should hope the name is sticking in people's heads at least a little bit.

10 cuckolds. These are some of my more involved specialty calls, so of course I've written about these. Excellent search combos include "what it's like to be a cuckold" (well, embarrassing, right?), "sissy cuck toilet slave at a party" (you know what they say about parties: clean up as you go along!), and my personal favorite of this crop, "swingers Jamal cuckold" (there's a story right there, in three words).

8 searches for "toilet slave", including the obvious variant "shit pig". If I were really into scat as part of my sexual identity, I think I'd probably go with shit pig, rather than toilet slave. It feels so much more empowering, you know?

7 for "office fuck". Are they looking for tips for making that happen?

And the rest are one-hit wonders like "free streaming mature perversities", "cream pie housewife", and "selebratie tits". That last one I don't know if they meant "celebrity tits" or "celebrate tits". Either way, baby, I got 'em and I DO.


Starting this week, I'll be digging back through 6 months of my show Phone Whore and bringing out the highlights reel. I mean, for those of you who follow me on facebook, you know a lot of it, but it's different when you're not limited to 420 characters. And stay tuned for exciting news about my radio show and more public appearances, and PLANS FOR NEXT YEAR'S TOUR. Yep. I'll be doing it again, and maybe this time you can catch me!

Fringe Review: “Phone Whore”, Another 5 Star Performance! (Toronto Fringe, July 2010)

So you know the title and you've read the description, so it won't be a surprise to you when you go see the show that the language and phone scenarios are sexually explicit. What may surprise you is the strength of the writing and the polished acting: no basic sex ad chatter that you find in the classifieds, and no fake, over the top, cutesie acting. What you get in Phone Whore is honesty and a script that questions society's standards, taboos and hypocrisy in relation to sex and sexual fantasies.

(read the rest here)

Phone Whore – &&&& +&&&& (Rover Arts, Montreal, June 2010)

There isn’t praise high enough for Phone Whore. Cameryn Moore’s one-woman, semi-autobiographical look into the life of a phone sex worker is frank, funny, brave, unsettling and even moving. Moore gives her audience exactly what they came for with steamy, one-sided re-enactments of calls with randy clients. But rather than stretch the material to comical extremes, she subtly shifts her focus ...

(read the entire review)


1 ...48 49 50 51 52 53 54 55 56 57 58 59