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.