“Do you ever talk to girls?”

This question, or variations of it, is excruciatingly common after performances of Phone Whore. Up until last week, the answer was always “no”. I can count on two fingers the number of calls that had women there in the room, and in neither case did the woman want to be there. One of them was pathologically shy and obviously pressured into listening in on the call, while the other was so strung out on some kind of drug that she could barely place three words of sense side by side. I do not count that talking with her.

People ask me why more women don’t call, and I shovel some shit about the sexual economies of the straight world and the lesbian/bi world, and then say “I don’t really know” and we all agree to move on. It’s not really shit I’m shoveling, I do believe what I’m saying and I spend time thinking about it, but really, I’m much more interested in WHY SO MANY PEOPLE ASK ME THAT QUESTION.

And I have theories, oh lord yes, because most of the people asking that question are men, and I also have these incredibly strong urges to leap on top of my sturdy stage armchair and throw stale bread at them and shout, “WHAT IS IT WITH YOU GUYS AND THAT GIRL-ON-GIRL ACTION THING?!?”

But I can’t do that, because that would be judgy and weird and a waste of good stage toast, so I politely make a joke and answer the question in that side-stepping way and talk about the two calls I’ve had with girls in them, and why they felt so yucky to take.

But now, ladies and gentlemen, and especially gentlemen, there have been three calls, and this last one, the one I took a week ago, felt GREAT.

For starters, it wasn’t girl-on-girl, so much as girl-with-girl-on-guy, and I don’t mean two giggling co-eds, one on each side. Dude, we were fuckin’ TAG-TEAMING the caller, in this sort of bitchy-dom-duo. She was sick, or weak, and so couldn’t administer anything herself, but she gave a slightly malicious laugh after each command I issued her partner, to pull up those panties or spank his own balls or bend over and spread those ass cheeks. We joined easily in taunting him about his tiny dick, and she agreed when I suggested that Cocksucker Red might be a better shade of lipstick for him than whatever princess-y pink color he was currently wearing.

At the end of the call, which covered all of that and a fairly mammoth dildo, the caller could barely breathe, but he didn’t have to. His mistress thanked me and I congratulated her on finding such a slutty sissy boy.

Gentlemen, I’m pretty sure that’s not the kind of girl-on-girl action you’re hoping I’ll tell you someday. Tough. That’s the kind of girl-on-girl action I want.

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

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. | #

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?

1 Comment | In: Kink-tastic, Uncategorized | tags: BBC, big black cock, cuckold, orgasm denial, submissive. | #

When I get a call, the dispatcher gives me a quick-hit low-down on what the caller likes, according to their records: likes big tits, doesn’t talk much, likes strap-on. These few words, called “whispers”, are priceless. We need them to get started, because getting from zero to “likes to be pissed on”, for example, in under 10 minutes is tough. Twenty questions would not be enough, is what I’m saying.

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.

1 Comment | In: Definitions, The Power of Words | tags: dominatrix, Phone Sex, submissive. | #