"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.