Author: camerynmoore

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It’s the journey, not the destination: or, Cameryn discovers the peculiar delights of orgasm denial

The longer I work in phone sex, the less often I will experience "firsts". This is a statistical certainty. The corollary for me is: the longer I work in phone sex, the more a "first" will stand out when one occurs. Like yesterday's, when I didn't let a caller come. Twice.

It was the same guy,  B., one of my regular cuckolds who, over the past 5 months, has spun a regular soap opera of a tale around his hot wife and her lesbian lover, who basically humiliated him and fucked his wife silly and then 6 weeks ago handed her over to, wait for it... Jamal. (Oh, my dear, delicious BBC, you are never far away, are you?)

The first time B called yesterday, he was filling me in on his wife's absence for the weekend, and also told me about the panties that he had purchased under my directive, a pair of satin, powder-blue French-cut bikinis that he had bought in a three-pack. He was wearing them under his trousers, at work (he's a financial advisor), and had locked the door and told his secretary to hold all calls.

I could have gotten him to come. Easy. I know my way around his buttons. Just calling him a good girl makes him hyperventilate for a few seconds. But on a whim, I told him to get down in a really humiliating pose, pull his tackle out and let it dangle, and then wiggle his ass around slowly while I told him to think about me watching him. Then I told him to stand up, pull his trousers back up, tuck his shirt in properly, and think about that moment on the floor for the rest of the day.

He called me back in the evening, upon which I accused him of trying to get me to let him come. He denied it passionately, and said he just wanted to let me know that he noticed, when he got home, that his hot wife had not taken her birth control pills with her on the weekend with her black lover. (Duh duh DUHHHHH.) He also said that he had gotten a call from her, and that they were going to be coming over in 15 minutes.

What did I do? I told him to put on the thigh-high stockings that he had purchased, also at my command, and wear those under his at-home pants. And then make sure that there was plenty of beer chilling in the fridge, because he's a good girl and I expect him to give good service. I told him to make sure and add this second call to the journal that I'm making him keep of when he gets an erection. And then I said good night.

I don't know why I did it that way. It just seemed like the right approach for him. And afterward I had to smile. Easiest money I ever made NOT getting a guy off. I wonder how long I--and he--can keep it up?

Getting the angst out of Thanksgiving

I'm not much for the winter holidays, to be honest. Since my primary partner and I shifted to a long-distance model--over three years ago, gah--the whole family/spouse/children/big dinner thing makes zero sense, so I tend to get pretty blasé, as in "blah". This year on Thanksgiving I'm holding down the phone lines for my usual shift, stepping out for dinner at a friend's house, where she is whipping up some Louisiana-style, duck-based deliciousness, and then coming back and... signing back on.


Well, I said all that Hallmark-induced shit doesn't make sense. Didn't say I'm impervious to societal pressure about what I'm supposed to be doing this Thursday. And again for Christmas. And again on New Year's Day.

Instead of  wallowing, I'd rather take a moment and write down a few things that I'm feeling thankful for. I mean, that's part of the tradition too, right? Since I can't really say this stuff in front of my mom and dad, this is the perfect place...

  • I'm thankful that I have paying work. Seven months ago I got notice that I was being let go from my straight job, and I was in a panic. But here I am, and the power is still on and I'm on time with a payment schedule for my student loans. A lot of people aren't so lucky.
  • I'm thankful for this work that I enjoy. For reals. I get a cheesy grin on my face when the dispatcher tells me that such-and-such a regular is requesting me, and I know it's one of the ones that I can really play with.
  • I'm thankful for such an abundant source of inspiration and material for new artistic work. Phone Whore excites the crap out of me (where are my toilet slaves when I need them, ha ha), and the stand-up stuff is scary hard, but good.
  • I'm thankful for a circle of friends and chosen family who support me in this work, who don't bat an eye when I dash off to pick up the phone and who listen with every appearance of interest when I have to debrief about my latest hard-core caller.
  • I'm thankful for all of the other sex workers and allies who have labored before me, in trying to demystify, decriminalize, and even celebrate our work: SWOP, Annie Sprinkle, Scarlot Harlot at BAYSWAN, Audacia Ray, ISWFACE, Émilie at Stella, $pread (the magazine and bog), the other members of psosupport.com. You've answered my questions, pointed me to resources, and really helped me integrate sex work into my self-identity. I'm stepping out to join the fray, but believe me, I'm well aware of the work that has already been done.

That's there's my semi-regular Gratitude Report, folks. What do you got in yours?

Phone sex etiquette (part 1)

I love this tip sheet directed at clients of escorts, on how to be a good john. It's rarely going to be seen by the people who really need to see it, but I'm glad it's out there. Kinda helps remind us that we are worthy enough to keep these boundaries in mind, you know?

My phone sex tip sheet is going to be a little different on the surface--it's such a different line of work, after all--but you can see that the take-away idea is the same: I'm a skilled worker, doing my best to get you off. Respect me.

Okay, so how do you respect me? Here are some good starting points:

DON'T TRY TO GET OFF TALKING TO THE DISPATCHER. That is not in her job description. She is going to be irritated, and believe me, you want to keep her on your side.

ANSWER THE PHONE PROMPTLY. Unless your wife just walked in or you are finishing up that enema, don't make my call go to answer machine. I know you're ready. We just talked to you. Oh, and next time? Finish the enema first and then call.

DON'T CALL IN WONDERING WHERE WE ARE. I don't think this is a double standard; it's just an occasional glitch in any service industry. Occasionally calls can run over (see below), or we have to run take a leak between calls, anything can happen. Wait for a bit before you call out the SWAT team, otherwise you're just tying up your phone line and ours.

SAY WHAT YOU REALLY WANT. I think 70 percent of the time wasted in phone sex is because the caller can't just spit it out. If it's your thing to have to have the truth forced out of you, as part of a humiliation sequence, that's all right (the dispatcher already told us). Otherwise, say it. We have mad listening skills and intuition, and the tropes are pretty obvious, but we AREN'T psychic.

DON'T ASK TO MEET ME. It's never going to happen. Other girls have done it? Fine, you should ask for them next time. Oh, wait, you can't. 'CUZ THEY WERE FIRED.

DON'T PUSH TIME LIMITS. If you are using a service that sells blocks of time, we will tell you when there are 2-3 minutes left. In my experience, that is plenty of time to wring it out. And don't get pissy when we hang up at a minute over. We get in trouble for this shit, okay? And it backs things up for other callers (see above).

SAY THANK YOU AND GOODBYE. Maybe you're of the opinion that you're paying for this call, and you can be a rude bastard if you want. That's fine. I'm not talking to you. I'm talking to the guys who want to know they're getting quality attention from their PSO. Seriously, fellas. Three words make me feel more human, and that means I'm going to feel more invested in the encounter. You'll sense the difference next time, trust me.

Hey, my PSO people! Got any other tips for callers using phone sex services? Drop 'em here!

So a PSO walks into this bar…

I did this little out-of-the-way comedy open mike last night. Why? Because I have so much fucking free time. Seriously, I'm learning to do stand-up as an extra artistic product that I can peddle on the Phone Whore 2010 tour.

It was going well, I thought. The five bar patrons were really paying attention, and I wasn't using cards or anything (unlike half of the other performers). People laughed at my BBC joke--this lovely little layered confection of race and homoeroticism, which I thought might be too much for the rural-suburban rundown hotel bar--and the loudmouthed barfly on stage left didn't heckle me at all. I felt pretty lucky, actually.

I ended by taking three questions from the audience. They jumped all over that shit, so not a bad way to wrap it up. But ladies and gentlemen, if I'm going to do that again, I need a quick, smart-ass answer for a common question that really chaps my ass:

Do you get off?

Right there, see, the assumption, the stereotype that every sex worker is just a nymphomaniac with a good manager.

The true answer for me is, occasionally. Once in a while, a regular stumbles upon something that's interesting to me, I'm bored, and I'll jack off. That's happened twice in the past seven months. More often than not, I just enjoy setting the scene, even if I don't get off. (As a slightly co-dependent top, when my bottom is coming, I get a rush anyway, and a little burst of twisted pride: I did that!)

But see, when I say "occasionally" to a caller, that's marketing. He's asking because he wants to be special, and my answer tells him that he is.

When I say "occasionally" to the drunk dude in a bar, I'm feeding a fantasy for free. He's not special, he's clearly a douche. Watching the guy last night elbow his friends and sit back all smug, I knew that the only payment for me, in a situation like that, would be to make him go limp, metaphorically speaking.

The suggestion box is now open.

When I grow old, I will wear tube tops

Mad, mad props to my colleague, Confessions, for a youtube channel that is as entertaining as it is educational. It was there that I found a short film called Phone Sex Grandma. Click on the link, baby. You will be so glad you did.

At first I was like, holy shit, that is one feisty old foulmouthed PSO bitch. And then I looked at the credits, and it looked like Opal Dockery wrote the piece. So I looked her up in IMDB and Opal is even more amazing than that: she's a former burlesque dancer/stripper, and she and her son have done a series of short films--both documentary and mockumentary, like this one--plus a book about her work. I am in AWE. I'm going to try to get her on my radio show to interview her sometime, but in the meantime, truly, bow down to Opal. I TOTALLY thought she was really doing those calls. There was some speculation on the PSO forum about what company she works for! Wow. If I can get even one-tenth of her authenticity when I "do the calls" in Phone Whore, I will be ecstatic.


Speaking of the radio show, it's not on this week, people! I'm going to be out of town until Friday, so y'all should be using this week as a chance to catch up on back episodes of Cameryn Moore, Phone Whore, and I'll have another all-new episode out for you next Wednesday.


So I sent in my $4,403.76 and application to the Fringe Tour Lottery today. That may be the most money that has ever passed through my hands at one time, all that on a shot to get my play, Phone Whore, into seven fringe festivals at once. Now, if I don't win this lottery, all is not lost. I get my entry fees back, and each individual festival will be holding its own lottery, starting with Montreal in December and rolling west, so I apply individually and string together the fringe component of the tour that way as well. But DAMN, I want to get the whole Fringe package settled, all at once. I want it so bad, I can taste it! (It tastes like wind and butterflies and the loganberries they use on the Swedish crepes at IHOP, with a slight aftertaste of nervous bile.)

They're holding the tour lottery in London, Ontario, on Thursday morning, 10/29, and they'll let people know on Monday. Aw, man. Why we gotta wait? Believe me, if I win a spot from this lottery, I'm not letting anyone wait. No, I'll make you wait for 15 minutes while I submerge my head in a bucket of champagne, and then I'm gonna drunk-facebook/dial/blog EVERY-FUCKIN-BODY.

Stay tuned.

Coming Out, Staying In

For some reason, I thought I was done with dramatic personal transformations or realizations that I'd need to tell my folks about. I mean, I haven't lived under their roof for over 20 years, I see them maybe once every 2-3 years, and I talk with them over the phone every other month. They live completely on the other side of the country, they're Mormons, and they're still a little lost about the whole bisexual thing.

Just when I think it's not possible to make my life any more different from theirs, then I have to go and find my life's work in getting guys off over the phone. That, plus the whole Phone Whore tour thing, makes life complicated. Because even the stuff that would normally be perfectly appropriate for idle chit chat, even that suddenly becomes treacherous territory.

So, how are you doing at that new job, where is it again?

Customer service at a call center.

Oh, and that's pretty much any time of day, right?

Yes, customers need help any time. ... (rushes in to fill awkward silence) Oh, and I'm, uh, working on a one-woman show, hoping to tour for four months next year!

Oh, that's great, honey. What's it about?

Uh. Oh. Just my life, you know.

Oh. ... Good! Let us know if you make it through here with the show!

I doubt it, Mom. Because if I tell you that I'm coming through, you're going to want to know about the show. And if I tell you about the show, you're going to cry, because you'll know for a fact that I'm beyond praying for, and you're getting old and, as rootless and guiltless and shameless as I am, I am not sure that even my jaded nerves are up to the task.


Check out what the Three Naked Ladies said this week about coming out to their people about their sex work. And let me know what you've told your people about yours. Seriously. Because I fear the conversation is coming, and as much experience as I have had coming out, I suddenly feel like a 19-year-old baby dyke all over again.

Beat this! (poetry slam on a theme)

During the last half of my radio show, I usually challenge guests and/or callers to some kind of improv game. For example, a few weeks ago I had my colleagues Scarlet and Lovelylaura spin out a joint sex scenario using three random words. I can't remember all three words, but one was "Crisco". You can imagine where that went.

This week Scarlet was back on and she wrested control of that segment out of my hands, by giving me the assignment: slam poetry about phone sex. I've only ever heard poetry slam stuff, never done it, but I took a breath and launched in. Today I went back and listened, and whoa. I don't know where that came from, but here it is, a literary launch to your weekend.

if you were to walk in right now
if you were to hear me say the words
cock cunt fuck me oh yes
you'd see my eyes closed and you'd think
yeah she's into it, she's got it going on
she's feeling it hard, she's feeling it deep
my eyes closed
she's got it going on
fuck yeah fuck me oh daddy
what you don't see
what you don't know
behind my closed eyes and the fluttering eyelids
and the light that flashes through
I'm seeing a video of what's going on
I see a video of what's going down
I see a video of me going down on him
I see a video of everything I say
goes straight to my mouth to my brain
and right out my eyes
shooting out on the screen that's happening behind my eyelids
behind my brain
it's all happening in my head
there's room for fifty people up there
there's room for a cast of thousands in my head
and it's all being projected on that screen
behind my eyelids in my head
you don't see that do you
you walk in you're going to hear it you're going to hear it
oh yeah fuck me suck me eat me
I've got my eyes closed and you think I'm leaning into it
you think I'm enjoying this stuff
you think I'm rocking on my chair because yes I love it so
no no no
that makes the video projector work better
it makes it work faster
gives it real time feel time
right there on the back of my eyelids
I got my eyes closed so I can see what I'm doing
I got my eyes closed so I can see exactly what needs to be done.

(I'm testing my audio editing skills to see if I can pull the excerpt of the show with this bit in it. Let's see, shall we?)(UPDATE: done and done! Click the link below and snap along for that real beat experience...)

Cam does some slam


(Or the strange phenomenon known as GFE)

When someone posted on the PSO support forum about a GFE call, I was stumped. People were going on about GFE like it was an industry-standard acronym, but it sure as shit wasn't in my company's handbook (a 12-page, badly edited text document with pink used for emphasis). I asked, and my colleagues clarified: GirlFriend Experience.

Ahhh. No wonder I didn't know what it was. Most of my callers are more into panty parties or BBCs or slut-fuck gangbangs, and unless they share lipstick tips with their girlfriends or routinely call them whores as part of their courtship--hey, I don't know, it probably happens!--then they aren't looking for a girlfriend.

But then I started thinking through my callers, the real regulars, and while I don't think the callers themselves would classify me as a GFE, they were asking me for all the traits of one:

  • Romance. One of my guys "shows up" for his calls on my doorstep, wearing boxers and a big grin, and carrying a bag of whatever toys or goodies he wants to unleash on me (for my birthday it was a waterproof vibrator and a cream-filled milk chocolate cock). Also, a dozen long-stemmed red roses. Awww!
  • Non-sex-related conversation. Dale called me a few weeks ago, looking for some advice on how to introduce himself to BBWs (Big Beautiful Women). Since then he's called back a few times; sometimes we fuck, and sometimes we just talk.
  • Regularity. Consistency (the first one sounded like a different situation) I have a standing call with a trucker from Iowa. Every Tuesday evening at around 10:30. The dispatcher doesn't even ask him anymore if he's looking for anyone in particular, she just patches him through. Just last week we agreed that we should let the other person know ahead of time if anything is going to come up the following week. Oh, hell... we're scheduling date nights. If that isn't a GFE, I'd like to know what is.

Point is, some of my callers are looking for something in addition to or beyond sex. They want a connection, a feeling that someone is on the other end who cares. The GFE is primarily about being a fun conversationalist, having a listening ear, letting your "partner" know how much you appreciate the roses, keeping them in the loop.... All the things that go into a good, IRL girlfriend still apply here.

And you know what? Even if I have to check my note cards every now and then... I can give them that.

Cameryn takes it all off at the Naked Comedy Showcase!

Title: Cameryn takes it all off at the Naked Comedy Showcase!
Location: Improv Boston, 40 Prospect St., Cambridge
Link out: Click here
Description: Created and hosted by Boston comic Andy Ofiesh, the NAKED COMEDY SHOWCASE features an eclectic roster of stand-up, sketch, and improv artists, all completely in the buff. Andy has been drawing crowds in with a unique blend of clever wit and nudity in various venues from New York to Boston to Scotland, where he had a full run at the Edinburgh Fringe Festival.

We can be seen on the first Wednesday of every month of at Improv Boston at 10 PM. Admission is $10

This Wednesday will be headlined by Chris Flemming, and I'm going to be making my comedy--and naked performance--debut!
Start Time: 22:00
Date: 2009-10-07


Why naked? Partly because I want to start making a name for Cameryn, in a town and performing community that knows me almost entirely by another name. And partly I want to get used to taking enormous risks on stage.

Why comedy? Because my life has only gotten weirder ever since I started doing phone sex, and this seems like one more way of really finding and articulating that weird.

If you're in the Boston area, come out and say hi!

Race: the fast food of phone sex

This is going to sound a little weird...

Try me, I said, trying not to laugh. The young man on the other end sounded shy, and I didn't want him to startle and disappear into the forest.

I really want to fuck those tits of yours...


Can you just make sure to say "big white tits" and "big black cock"?

Sounds easy enough, right? I do have big white tits, and I can imagine wrapping those suckers around a decent-sized dick of any color. He said he was African-American, so hey, let me drop that rack all over you. But after about 10 minutes into his half-hour block, in the middle of a ritualistic, impressionistic, stream-of-consciousness narrative of black hardness and big-white-tit-ness, I am a) running out of ways to say 'big white tits' and 'big black cock'--which makes me feel inadequate as a professional wordsmith--and b) wondering, yet again, what is it about this combo of white and black that turns many people on, so very much?

He seemed to be getting off on the visual of it, the idea of that contrast between his dark cock and the expanse of soft creamy white flesh. Every repetition of those words made him shudder, and when I said once, just to take a break, "you like how that looks?", his response was, "Oh my god, it looks so amazing!" It is a striking contrast, for those who don't see it often or only in carefully staged porn, so I imagine that it's part of it.

But the taboo aspect is more interesting, being more difficult to untangle. White folks have been placed as sexually off-limits for people of color in American society, enforced by centuries of slavery and lynchings and laws, so to be able to have that flesh might feel, in some way, to some people, like a release or a challenge. (I'm not saying it's a conscious thing. We're all fucking soaking in this shit...) And for the white men who call up looking for that experience from the other side, perhaps the act of being done by a black man is the easiest line from A to B, owing to how marginalized, feared, and hated African-American men are in our culture. "I want 7 minutes of violation and degradation" = "quick, get a black man raping my ass".

Now that I think about it, race-based fantasy is kinda like the fast food of phone sex. A lot of people like it, although they may be ashamed to admit it. It's quick and easily accessible and doesn't require a lot of thought, either as a provider or as a consumer. The whole fetishistic package uses images and emotions and cliches and stereotypes and ingrained gut response to go straight to the libido and satisfy it, for a time. And then, well, they're hungry for more.

Like my titty fucker. He's now a regular. I guess he likes the way I serve it up. I'm into it, he says, and describe it so well. But really, every time it's the same damn meal.

Big white tits. Big black cock.

And always a milkshake to wash it down.

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