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…”

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.

I’m not going to deal with the 101 of cuckolding, because Dan Savage covers it nicely here and wikipedia goes into great detail also. For myself, after extensive reading of overwrought cuck fic and a couple of afternoons laughing at the bad acting at those interracial hot-wife sites (no links to that, that’s what google is for), this is where I’m at:

WTF.

I’m just not much closer to emotionally comprehending the turn-on. Sure, I had my theories, but the chart is starting to sprawl as my cuck-callers keep adding phrases and scenes and images to the mess: imagining your conservative wife letting loose with some horse-dicked stranger, in a way that she doesn’t with you. Smelling that distinct lust-must smell in the conjugal bed. Her getting knocked up and not by you. Being the clean-up boy as your reward (oh, homosex overtones, I never get enough of you). Watching her exit the restaurant with her boyfriend on the eve of your anniversary dinner, leaving you with the tab, defizzed champagne, and a melting tiramisu. A call I took last week made me cry, when one cuckold fantasizer asked me, “what will it feel like when my wife falls in love?”

This stuff is CHARGED. Last night I took a call where the hardest spot of resistance for the caller was when I told him, the husband, that he needed to open the door for my lover and welcome him into the house. He resisted, he was shocked and appalled, but he didn’t hang up, which is why I spent some time needling him about it. “Don’t you love me? Don’t you want to see me happy?” I asked, throwing an extra pout into my voice. “I can’t do it,” he kept saying. “It’s so humiliating.”

We ended up arguing for nearly 10 minutes, because here we were, 60 minutes into the call, and we had already imagined him taking the guest bedroom, right next to the master bedroom and hearing me get my brains fucked out. So what was it about opening the door and offering a drink to my lover that was so much harder? “He’s been in our bed before, you know.” “I know. But I can’t just welcome him in like that.” In the end, we negotiated–a cream pie in exchange for opening the door and being respectful–but over my head the lightbulb didn’t just go on; there were 200 of them flashing all around. Jeezus christ, I thought, all that psychological symbolism is right on. It’s like a porno and horror film all mixed together.

Whatever you do, cuckold, (don’t) open that door. After that, it’s all over but dessert.

But some whispers are, how shall I say… useless. Not because of the dispatcher, but because of the caller, and because of the inadequacy of words, and the inherent self-centeredness of everyone’s sexual world. One whisper I particularly dislike is “wants to be dominated”.

Because on a seven-minute call, unless it’s part of an ongoing, regular phone relationship, you aren’t experiencing domination. You’re experiencing someone being loud and stern at you while you get to do exactly and only what you want to do.

The seven-minute sub, if it was a sandwich, would be your delicious choice of any imaginable ingredient in the world, on two slices of grocery-store sourdough, with maybe some mayo. I would be wearing a hairnet and high-heeled boots, and I would hand your sub to you on a plate and yell, “EAT IT!” at random intervals. But you don’t mind the noise because it’s exactly the sandwich you want. At least the filling is, and that’s what people order sandwiches for anyway, isn’t it?

The seven-minute sub wants the domme call because he wants to lick my ass or worship my boots and he can’t imagine any other way that he would do that without a strong woman being involved.

The seven-minute sub is the ultimate bratty bottom. He doesn’t need a safe word, because he can pull out of his bottomness at any time and say, “Actually, I’m not into that…” Or just say “NO!” and hang up, like one person did on me last week.

The seven-minute sub is playing at it. Some might say that all phone-sex subs are playing at it, that there’s no way to truly dominate someone over the phone. My experience? Not true. I have several regulars who take everything I dish out and are clearly relishing the feeling of being dominated. I have a particular favorite whom I have told to lick his come off of his leather sofa at the end of the call, and he does it, no question, even though he’s already come.

Point is, you can get there in 90 minutes, or even 10. But seven minutes of phone-sex domination is just a scold and a wank. I’ll do it for the money, but believe me, the longer you give me to make you a sub, the tastier it’s going to be.