After months and months of talking with strange men about everything that gets them off, I have taken four weeks off with one of my partners to visit his homeland, a small-ish but crowded South Asian country where 89 percent of the population is Muslim, so incidentally I am not talking to any strange men at all about anything, let alone what kind of things they want to have stuck in their ass or stick in mine.

I am doing the opposite of phone sex.

It feels like a slight ache in the back left quadrant of my brain, as if I have undergone a delicate lobotomy and temporarily extracted the actual physical portion of my brain that normally handles the phone sex, and now the rest of my brain–including the tender bit that negotiates slightly fraught domestic life with sub-optimal skills in the local language and also the part that maintains the psychological defenses while I’m out in a car drawing stares from the rickshaw drivers and their passengers–is pressing down on that empty space and closing in.

I’m pushing back, of course; wouldn’t be a PSO if I didn’t have creative ways to keep the sleaze simmering. For example, I still have that sex-psychic vision overlay that puts little boxes of sex info over the heads of everyone I look at. It seems to function pretty well cross-culturally. I may not know the language well, and fetishes vary, but the basic impulses are still there, so that’s a kick in the salwar kameez to play with. (Does anyone else play this game in their head, or is it just me?)

My Internet connection is working pretty well, so I still get to read status updates from my facebook friends, talking about pasties and piercings and burlesque shows in Germany and cabaret evenings in NYC and kink workshops in Arizona, and that helps me keep the flame alive. Sometimes I’ll even lie around in our bedroom after bathing without any clothes on, and let the cool air from the ceiling fan brush past my (currently) unmentionable bits.

I’m not getting paid for it right now, but it’s nice to know that I can keep that dirty space open and charged in my brain.

No Comments | In: Celebrate Perversity!, Phone Whore on the road | tags: international sex, Phone Sex. | #

I’m doing a queer comedy night next week, and it’s got me digging deep for material. Like, real deep.

See, I’ve been going along on the phones for the past nine months, getting men off, and that steady stream of audio cock hypnotized me into thinking that I was only working that side of my resume, you know, the straight side. I’m a girl, they’re all boys, and that means straight. Truth be told, I was okay with that, because frankly, I felt like perhaps I was a little weak in that area and, as a PSO trying to be the best I can be, I could use some real practical experience in the verbalization of cock.

But when I began excavating my history and experiences, and sifting through even my current work for queer-relevant fragments that I could bring to the stage–so that I could even semi-legitimately make this stand-up set queer–I found instead big chunks of queer GOLD.

Let’s set aside the fact that, as someone who lived a dick-free existence from 1989 to 2001, I know more about eating pussy than most straight guys, and certainly most of the guys who call in wanting to talk about eating pussy, or about me eating pussy. It’s a relief to sit down to a bout of rug-munching, frankly: it’s an easy sound effect, much easier on my throat than pretending to choke on a monster cock. And when I get a chance to gently guide my caller on the finer points of eating pussy, I definitely feel that I am putting some positive points in the paying-it-forward column of sex education.

As I’ve mentioned in previous posts, a good chunk of the stuff that I narrate is male-on-male action. The infamous BBC constitutes a high percentage of that work, obviously, but dick-focused action–what I would call gay, in the context of paid phone sex–includes many other categories of calls: she-males on top, camping with the boy scout troop, cuckold action (especially any scene that involves the cuckold being the fluffer and/or cleanup boy). The fact that I’m a woman narrating these scenes doesn’t matter; what is being expressed, what is being fantasized, is homoerotic as hell.

And then there’s the gender-queer component. My sissy girls and panty boys remind me that there is a significant minority of dudes out there who might be feeling a little chafed by gender norms and expectations, and/or curious about at least some aspects of life and lust on the other side of the gender fence. For these callers, I get to be the voice of acceptance and surprise packages and cocksucker-red lipstick and color-coordinated satin lingerie. I love taking those calls; I mean, who doesn’t want to wear silky panties under your business suit? Briefs versus boxers is a false dichotomy! One’s choices in undergarments exist on a beautiful rainbow spectrum!

But conversation about the intersection of phone sex and queerness isn’t complete unless we include the underbelly, too. For most of my “queer” calls, I’m the voice of shame and degradation, at least occasionally. I end up making liberal use of epithets that I have spent most of my queer life avoiding: cocksucker, faggot, pansy. Most of my “queer” callers are wallowing in the dirtiness and taboo of their fantasies; if I don’t make them feel at least a little like shit for wanting it, I’m not doing my job.

Believe me, the dissonance between actually being queer and “doing” queer on the phones can be teeth-grinding. If nothing else, doing phone-queer all the time makes the REAL stuff look and feel that much better. I feel like I’m a waitress in a pie restaurant, talking to customers who have only eaten sugar-free, store-bought pie all their life. That’s what’s been marketed to them, and that’s what they want, and I have to go along with it, yum yum yum. But I know what a real, sticky-sweet, bourbon-laced, pecan pie tastes like, and gosh, I wish they did, too.

1 Comment | In: Celebrate Perversity!, Social Issues and Damp Tissues | tags: BBC, cuckold, gay fantasy, Phone Sex, queer phone sex, shemale. | #

Wordpress, which provides the template and underlying functionality for my blog, has a nifty little feature on its stats page, whereby I can see what search terms people used to find my site. I did that yesterday, and was … delighted? bemused? confused?… by the results. After removing the 28 terms that involved some variation of “cameryn moore”,  here’s what I got:

(the numbers after indicate how many times those search terms were searched)

cuckold 12

naked comedy showcase 4

toilet slave blog 3

diydomme blog 2

my toilet slave 2

blog toilet slave 2

toilet play sex 2

toilet slave 2

“naked comedy showcase” 2

toilet pig phone sex 2

how to become a toilet slave 2

submissive toilet slave 2

pay slave mistress or domina or dominatr 2

mean cuckoldress audio 1

phonsex milfs into tickling 1

cuckolding cleanup creampie 1

toilet play phone sex 1

phone sex operator intros 1

“shit pig” degradation 1

“force feeding” toilet mistress 1

filthy slut degrading audio downloads 1

big cock 1

“dom couple” toilet slave” 1

phone sex script intros 1

mommyfuckers.com 1

toilet slave magazines 1

information on toilet slaves 1

he’s my toilet slave 1

toilet slave feeding 1

only horny ass worship show. blogroll 1

cream pie cuckold 1

adult toilet play 1

**********************

A few things come clear for me after reading this list…

- Lot of people looking for cuckolding resources. Hey, guys! Rather than look online for cuckold phone sex and wife-swap communities, it might be easier and cheaper to just sexually neglect your wife and take her to a swingers club! Oh, wait, fantasy… that’s right, this is fantasy… right?

- I have to start up a subsidiary audio erotica company called Mean Cuckoldress Audio (”unapologetically not yours”).

- How about that whole toilet thing, huh? I think I … uh… excuse me, I need to go take a leak.

1 Comment | In: Celebrate Perversity!, Humor | tags: cream pie, cuckold, dominatrix, Phone Sex, toilet play. | #

There was a time—five months ago, to be precise—when I scorned the seven-minute sub call. Meaningless as far as submissive experiences go, I said. Ridiculously narcissistic micro-binges of faux fear, I said. With my own lifestyle experiences under my belt (hell, with a bunch of good beltings under my belt), I felt fitly girded to look at that shit and laugh. What the hell can you do in seven minutes?

I’m still in that camp, to some degree. In real life, seven minutes is hardly enough time to tongue-polish the toe of one boot. But with a little more experience racked up, I’m starting to find and enjoy the subtle differences in phone domme-ness that I can play with, even in seven….

There’s the Intelligent Tease. The sex may be vanilla or kinky, doesn’t matter, because how I talk is the point, drawing them out and mocking them with every lightly barbed sentence. This is one of my favorites, because I can really let loose with my vocabulary and jokes. I throw enough at them so they’re kinda dazed and laughing and intrigued, and then I tell them exactly what’s going to come next.

Ooh, how about the Woman of Mystery? She rivals my shemales for lowest-pitched voice, I’m talking serious Kathleen Turner territory. And she’s kinda freaky, as in, uncanny. As a WoM, I know everything. I speak with enough authority, telling them what they like about my body and how their body is reacting to that stimuli, that inevitably, inexorably, it happens. Just as I knew it would. It’s like Obi-wan in Star Wars, but, you know, sexy. “These are the tits you’re looking for…” “These are the tits I’m looking for…”

The Steel-toed Bitch is another favorite of mine, because I never get to be her in real life. I don’t have her shoes or her leather wardrobe. Or the cock, for that matter; usually I’m a shemale for this, unless I’ve got the 8-inch strap-on in place. I’m always doing the fucking, but I don’t give them anything until I’ve wedged the toe of my boot in their ass. Or something like that. I’m just warming them up, see?

And then of course there’s the Hot Sex-Ed Teacher, always ready to step in when the caller is enthusiastic but ignorant. Like a 15-year-old, you know? Shy but eager, and desperately in need of some gentle, clear yet sensual instructions about how exactly to lick my pussy, and why it’s a good idea to use a finger or two on the ass before ramming one’s Woodrow Wilson in. (All you man-fuckers of the world, you can thank me later.)

In my original seven-minute sub article, I used the sandwich metaphor to put down the shorty-short domme call: It’s the one ingredient the caller wants, delivered on the audio equivalent of pasty white sandwich bread and consumed quickly. But I think I may have sold myself short, because in actual fact, I’ve got a whole countertop full of sauce bottles, ready to slather on and perk that sub up at a moment’s notice. It’s still fast food, but it’s gonna be good stuff.

“These are the tits you’re looking for…”

1 Comment | In: Celebrate Perversity!, Definitions | tags: dominatrix, Phone Sex, submissive. | #

I am not really concerned about what people think about me, when I tell them I’m a phone sex operator. Ever since I grew tits at the age of 11, I’ve been called a slut, a whore, a tramp. When I got to be tall and thick at the age of 14, I got all the body-hate stuff as well: cow, whale, pig (why are they always animals? those are nice animals!). Coming out as queer at 19 (I now identify as bi-dyke, for those of you who must have labels), I felt another strata of insults sliding into place: queer, dyke, “fuckin’ dyke” (well, yes, I try!). See all the layers? I’m pretty well insulated by now.

So what chaps my fat, queer ass when I talk in public about doing phone sex is not what people may think about me. It’s what they think about my clients.

“So what’s the weirdest call you’ve ever done?”

“It must be hard talking to losers all day.”

“So all those freaks, huh? Scary!”

This is part of my inheritance, as a visible, activist-type sex worker in a society in which sex is simultaneously revealed and reviled. I get to publicly defend the honor of my clients, and by extension the clients of any phone sex worker ever, because most callers sure as shit won’t do it for themselves. And by go-go-Gadget super extension, I’m defending the sexual freedom and honor of my audiences as well.

They need it. Don’t you see? It’s a statistical certainty that in any co-ed or male-dominated crowd that I am speaking to, at least one or two of the guys have called phone-sex lines, and probably enjoyed it. It’s even more certain that in almost any mainstream bar or club crowd, a MAJORITY of the people listening, of all genders, have fantasies that they have never told anyone about, like the calls that I mention in my routines. So when they demonstrate their diss, and start making comments or assumptions about how freakish and loser-y my callers must be, my hackles rise. I  want to hug them and slap them at the same time. Denial is not just a river in Egypt. Projection is not just making sure people can hear your voice.

You get me? Because my clients are definitely part of the privileged mainstream: they have valid credit cards, and regular jobs, and normal-sounding voices–at least until they start calling me Mommy or Mistress. They at least know where to go to get their sexual ya-yas out. My regulars have a discerning ear, they like what I offer. They talk about their turn-ons, or at least say “Oh, YEAH!” when I hit their buttons. They are fuckin’ horndogs, some of them. They are shy. They feel guilty, or they feel great. Their fantasies are “crazy”,  or  vanilla, or some neopolitan mix depending on the day.

In short, they are you, dear Mainstream Audience.

So when I answer your questions with some side-stepping comment, not the wild voyeuristic freakshow response that you want; when I don’t give you a joke that ends with a punchline like, “… and then his mother walked in and asked him what he wanted on his sandwich”; when I look out at you from the stage and talk about my clients without ridicule or malice… I’m doing it that way out of respect for them and their sexual freedom. And, though you may not know it or want to claim the gift, I’m doing it for you, too.

You’re welcome.

3 Comments | In: Celebrate Perversity!, Politics of Sex Work | tags: comedy, performance, Phone Sex, sexual freedom. | #

I wear a lot of hats doing this work–girlfriend, mommy, counselor, sexologist–sometimes all in one call. But this week I got handed another role, one that my eight months of phone sex, and all my years of interpersonal experience and sexual exploration, couldn’t prepare me for. For a few frightening moments I was at a loss.

A caller asked me for help with his Christmas shopping.

It was B., of course, who recently gave me my first encounter with tease and denial. He calls me every week or so,  spinning out a labyrinthine tale of cuckoldry that any soap opera writer would give their studio parking spot to dream up. Because why? It would keep them in business for decades. I’m hoping to still be hearing about this when B.’s as-yet-unborn kids who clearly aren’t his are scouting out colleges and hitting him up for outrageous allowances.

In this week’s episode, B. called and said, straight out the gate, “I need your help.” (Duh duh duhhhh!) For a split second I thought, oh god, it all turned out to be real and his wife Deanne is asking for separation and he needs a sofa to crash on while she and her dominant bull lover Jamal work out living arrangements. Nothing so simple. B. said Deanne had just texted him at work, telling him to get presents for Jamal and Joellen, her lesbian lover. Which raises that perennial holiday question:

What do you get for the guy who already has everything, including an irresistible BBC and your wife?

I’ll be honest, the part of my head that goes “real or ridiculous?” whirred for a couple of frantic seconds. But then my PSO-mind clicked back on, and I sat back and started pulling out from B. what he knew about the recipients of his flamboyantly humble cuckold gifts. Of course, what he “knows” is all sexual–he doesn’t know Joellen’s favorite color, but he knows her bra size and how many strap-ons she keeps in her travel suitcase. And Jamal, what does he like? “Beer and your wife,” I answered my own question while thinking out loud.

In the end, we decided that he should get Joellen a nice, domme-ish black leather halter top (in my mind, she’s a slightly femme dyke-on-bike). And Jamal is going to be given a his-and-hers set of subtle, chain-mail collars, for him to make B. and Deanne wear at his pleasure . I figured Jamal would appreciate the symbolism behind it; I mean, B. sure did.

For that added weight of verisimilitude, I gave B. some sites to look at for submissive-type jewelry, and told him sternly that if he wanted the collars to get there in time he would have to have them overnighted (extra expense and therefore humiliation!). As a finishing touch, I instructed him to take his wedding band and his wife’s as well (she hasn’t been wearing it for months), and bring them along with the collars to a jeweler, and have their wedding bands attached to the collars as the connecting loop for the leashes.

I was kinda proud of that last bit.

27 Comments | In: Celebrate Perversity! | tags: BBC, big black cock, cuckold, holidays, interracial. | #

Supporting actors, extras, and tech crew needed for no-taboo phone sex fantasies. On call around the clock, must be available at moment’s notice for random sexual acts and fetish work. You will be taking artistic direction from both the director and the male lead; in cases of conflict, male lead’s decision is considered final. Currently accepting applications for the following…

• Big Black Studs. Pitchers only, able to keep it up for women and men with rapid recovery time. Successful applicants will have double-digit equipment. You will be provided with your own fluffers and clean-up crew, whether you want it or not.
• Hot Wives. Convincingly insatiable, anal experience required, indiscreet to outright flaunting. Must supply own wardrobe of barely street-legal club wear. Bonus if you have or are willing to get a tattoo of a spade on your upper thigh.
• Horny Mothers-in-law. Ages 50 to 65, most body types acceptable, but you will get more work if you have the body of a 30-year-old and the vocabulary of a sailor. Some mother-daughter incest required.
• Bi-curious Best Friend. Pitchers only, any race, ages 30 to 45, well hung (8 inches or over), open WRT porn and beer preferences. Candidates with prep school and/or Boy Scout background encouraged to apply.
• Kinky Bi Babes. Ages 21 to 23, size 0-4, mid-length to long hair only (any color). Acrobatic or contortionist experience recommended, proven multi-orgasmic capacity, shaved pussy preferred. No speaking required.

Tech crew positions include

• Wardrobe/makeup specialists with open mind for MTF transformations.
• Animal wranglers (experience with horses, ponies, dogs)
• Riggers for rope suspension work, some CBT and chandelier-swinging.
• Lighting tech to maintain rosy glow for incest scenes.

No testing, no protection, no health insurance, just the satisfaction of joining an imaginary team dedicated to providing the best fucked-up fantasies in the biz.

3 Comments | In: Celebrate Perversity!, Humor | tags: Humor, Phone Sex. | #

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.

2 Comments | In: Celebrate Perversity!, Phone Whore 2010 Tour | tags: grandma, Phone Sex, phone sex culture, phone sex film. | #