So… there’s this little play that I’m doing this summer and fall. Maybe you’ve heard of it. Phone Whore. Really. It’s little. It’s just got me in it. I have a director and a tech director and a set builder, but on stage it’s just me in my pajamas. The set pieces can all fit in my 1991 Toyota Corolla, plus two suitcases, a duffle bag, an office-in-a-box, and a pantry-in-a-box.

(Oooh, an office-in-a-box? Sounds snazzy! What is it? Ummm… office and merch supplies thrown in a box. Same thing for pantry-in-a-box: rice, granola, sofrito, tuna fish, peanuts, and a good chef’s knife. In a box. As simple as dick in a box, but easier to explain to customs.)

ANYWAY.

A lot of my life is wrapped up in getting this show on the road, getting it booked into places, getting homestay, making a fantastic poster, and, well, packing my life in a box for five months and putting it on wheels. That in itself is fairly traumatic. But add on top of it, I’m basically committing to saying the same vulnerable, sexy, scary things (one audience member at the Boston opening weekend called it “intense”) for 50 or 60 shows over the next five months.

How can I tell that I’m scared? I find myself second-guessing my decisions, even with the positive feedback, even with the plans in place, even with the Montreal postcards done and sent to print, the first of thousands of cards I’ll be handing out to people this year with my face on them (layered over a fierce pegging narrative, a very readable wall of smut in 20% grayscale).

I keep bugging my director. It’s not too much? I ask. NO, she says, shut up.

I look at posts like this, about how coming out and sharing one’s story as a sex worker is a privilege, and I think, god, what I’m doing is so fucking self-centered and privileged.

And then I feel the weight of the responsibility, because I know that people are going to take me and my play as some kind of representation of the whole, and it’s not, it really isn’t, but that doesn’t matter, because in the larger scheme of things, that’s just the way it’s going to be interpreted. And then I try to sort out unnecessary guilt from necessary good intent, and that’s a bitch, let me tell you.

And then I think, what if people really like it and come out to it? I’m going to have to file taxes in Canada next year, jeezus, I still owe $7000 in back taxes here in my own goddamn country! Or what if people start stalking me because of it? And then I start to get an anxiety attack.

And then inevitably the phone rings. (Warm pork chops or an anxiety attack, the calls always interrupt something good.) (And actually another call came in just now, a 15-minute hand-job. Five bucks for me, yay!) But you know what? As busy as I am, making lists or trying to reach kinksters in Calgary or nailing down a venue in DC–even while on tour, because I’m sticking as close to my required shifts as possible–I need the calls to keep coming in.

For starters I need to keep making money. I don’t know how the tour is going to do. But beyond that, doing the calls calms me right the fuck down. It reminds me where the hell this all comes from, this play, my comedy stuff, the tour. A fifteen-minute titty fuck grounds me in the straightforward (which is not always to say simple) act of getting a stranger off. Audiences and reviewers and the public and, hell, community standards can be prickly little bastards, fickle and treacherous. But my callers only want one thing, and by god, I know beyond doubt that I am good at giving it.

Thanks, guys!

No Comments | In: Cameryn 101, Phone Whore on the road | tags: I'm an Artiste Dammit, Phone Sex, Phone Whore 2010 Tour, Social Issues and Damp Tissues. | #

There is a certain type of caller I get—I need to come up with a good label for them—where maybe they’re calling the first time to just get a good wham-bam session in, and then I hook them with my wordsmithing.

I don’t do it on purpose, and I’m not saying that other PSOs aren’t capable of it, AND when pressed (up against a urinal, ba-dump-bump), I can and do deliver the brutal, sound-symphony-type fuck session as well as anyone. But I default to description. Lots of it. Big steaming loads of juicy, melt-in-your-mouth, caress-your-ears description. It’s my training as a writer. And in phone sex it’s a double-edged sword, which I learned very quickly to keep in its sheath.

My company mostly sells blocks of time, and I sure as shit don’t get paid for going over. In fact, I get ripped a new one for going over, so, you know, negative reinforcement and all that. Even for the rare “open” calls, where I keep the timer running and call in when I’m done—the ones like what people think when they think phone sex—most callers are bargain-minded, and they don’t have any patience if they aren’t getting directly to the point. What I feel is an important element of the scene—the furniture in the basement, the color of my panties, giving equal stage time to all 12 members of the basketball time currently raping his ass—may not be of the essence, and they’ll let me know somehow to move on.

But there are the ones who thrill to the details, who ask me to repeat a certain line. I make sure to mentally set aside that much time to get their gears grinding and set the scene. I mean, I get that it’s part of their fetish thing, getting that kind of detail, but I still love it when it meshes with my chronic motormouth and becomes this joint creative collaboration. I thrive off the caller who wants to hear me spin out the negligee he needs to put on, or describe in-depth how my sweaty ass crack smells, or explicate how his wife will feel when she falls in love with another man with a bigger cock. One of my callers said once, “listening to you is like reading a novel, it’s so rich!”

Well, and not everyone likes to read novels. Some people are more than satisfied with headlines and cereal boxes, and that’s what I’ll do. But when the phone-sex equivalent of a novel-reader comes along, I am ready.

1 Comment | In: Cameryn 101 | tags: Phone Sex. | #

It’s been really, really slow on the phones lately. It’s not me, at least that’s what my boss tells me. It’s just that time of the year. Weather’s getting nice, baseball is back on, tax returns are due. Aahhhhh, yes. People are getting concerned about money, and saving up for tax payments.

And phone sex is a luxury item. I’m not going to say anything about sex in general being a luxury, but 20 minutes of time once a week to talk to a stranger about having your wife get fucked by a couple of black dudes? Well, it’s cheaper than therapy or actually hiring a couple of guys to do the deed, but not as cheap as just sitting at home in your dark bedroom and replaying last week’s phone call in your head.

I’m in reruns and I’m not getting a cent.

In good news, I’ve been getting a small wave of people who used to be regulars, or at least who requested me a few times in a row, A YEAR AGO, and then didn’t call back, until now. One of the dispatchers I asked about it last night, she said, “eh, they just like to try all the girls”. Me, I wonder if they liked what they heard back then, but I didn’t quite have the skills to hook them through and keep them on. Because it was A YEAR AGO.

There’s no knowing, I suppose, but it’s just fun to hear back from people who not only stuck in my mind, but apparently I stuck in theirs. Last night I heard back from my Gentleman Ass Pirate, after a 10-month absence. No recriminations, obviously, but I said, “well, we’ve spoken before, but I don’t know if you remember…”, and he interrupted and said in that sweet Southern accent, “Oh, no, honey, I remember your voice. You have a celebrity voice.” I was like, what? He was a little drunk, so he sounded a little flustered. “I mean, you have a voice that sounds like you should be a celebrity. Like you should be on radio or something. You have a beautiful voice. I remember your voice.”

Gentleman Ass Pirate, indeed. He proceeded to lay siege to my booty for 45 minutes, getting me to lick his dirty cock between bouts, and thanked me afterwards as graciously as a king.

Welcome back, pirate. Stay for a while this time. The wench is better than she was a year ago.

1 Comment | In: Cameryn 101 | tags: dirty talk, Phone Sex. | #

I read somewhere that you should never apologize on your blog for long gaps between postings. So, hey everyone! You all can suck my big pink overbooked dick! Woo-hoo!

The good news is, I am fully back in the swing of things. I was worried about re-entry after a month away, but everything was fine. Funnily enough, the first call on my first shift back was my extreme top. When the dispatcher told me it was going to be him, my heart sunk, because he always wants me to whimper and cry and beg, and come up with extreme torture to beg him for. Even though I am not actually getting my titties nailed to the wall—and that’s not the most extreme that he gets—and I haven’t come during one of his calls since that first time I got caught up in it and lost it, I still emerge on the other end of those 90-minute calls fucking wrung out and panting and sweaty, with a sore throat and aching head. At the end of it, all I could say was, well, everything else after this will be a snap.

My regular callers are certainly happy. My Saturday night lactation date was my second caller back, and when I said, “Wow, you got lucky! Tonight was my first night back on”, he said, “I know, I marked it on my calender!”

So, yeah…

I don’t quite know what to do with that kind of dedication, just like I don’t know what to do with the almost-emotional welcome that my Tuesday-night trucker gave me. He was getting downright tender, letting me know how much he missed me (I believe it) and how he didn’t even call the service that whole month (I don’t believe it, but still, it’s sweet of him to think to say it).

My trucker and I have been speaking for a half-hour once a week since… June 2009? Almost 10 months. Really? I mean… that’s a committed phone bone right there. We’re starting to reach the point—I can feel it in the way he half-says some things—where we’re both wondering where this relationship is going. He wishes he could meet me, of course, which is different from my idea of the next level.

That would be the 45-minute level. Don’t want to rush him into anything.

No Comments | In: Uncategorized | tags: GFE, Girlfriend, Phone Sex. | #

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. | #

Location: Fetish Fair Fleamarket, Providence, RI
Link out: Click here
Description: Is the world ready for Phone Whore? Let’s find out, when Cameryn Moore’s gritty slice-of-life drama about phone sex, fantasy, and life “on the lines” premieres on opening night of the Fetish Fair Fleamarket in Providence, RI. If you’re already planning to be at the Flea, make this one-hour theatrical experience your first stop! You must have paid admission to the FFF to attend this event. Blackstone Room.

SPECIAL TALKBACK SESSION: come join Cameryn and Phone Whore director Lisa Dupre at 9:30 pm for discussion and feedback about this exciting new play!
Start Time: 18:45
Date: 2010-02-12
End Time: 19:45

1 Comment | In: Phone Whore 2010 Tour, Pimpin', Uncategorized | tags: performance, Phone Sex, sex work. | #

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. | #