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Archive for Phone Whore

The prospect of getting out

So, here I am, about four weeks out into my UK tour. Four weeks since the last time I took a call. Before this summer, six weeks is the longest I've gone without being on call. Now I'm basically tripling that. It still feels strange to not have to drag my eyelids open in the morning to sign in, to not have to drop everything to pick up a call, to make lunch plans. With other people. OUTSIDE THE HOUSE.

WUT.

My boss told me back in April that I could have my job back when I return, right before Labor Day. She added, "if we're still operating when you get back," which I immediately recognized as a half-joking attempt to make me feel guilty for taking the time off, and a half-serious compliment about some of my regulars maybe not wanting to stick around if I'm not there. I hate when she pulls that shit. It's flattering to be someone they've grown to rely on, but c'mon, that's basic business strategy, right? Don't put all your eggs in my basket.

In one of our earlier conversations about this hiatus, my boss said, "But what if you make it big while you're over there?" I laughed that off and told her "not likely," but in my secret performer soul, I was, like, PLEASE. Let it be so.

The prospect feels a little confusing and unmooring, I'll admit. I don't know what full-time playwright/performers do in their day-to-day lives, anymore than I knew what PSOs do with their lives before I started doing it. I suppose it's the same things I already do—writing, networking, emailing, dicking around on the Internet—minus the frequent interruptions to help the next wanker, and without this particular form of fallback income. It's not an earth-shaking transition, in other words, but change is still scary. I've been living this way for over five years. I hope that I can be honest enough with myself to not let my fears get in the way of me getting out.

I mean, because it would be amazing if I successfully transitioned all the way into theatre. PSO work was always just a job, something enabling me to stay afloat while I figured out what I wanted to do next. Now that I've figured that out—playwright/performer all the way, baby!—I've gotta be brave while I figure out how to move on that. This is the part about transitioning out of sex work that is not so easy, because it's not like I hate the work. I just know it's not the main thing that I want to do with my energy, and I'm still grappling with how to move around in the outside world without phone sex as my ballast, my constant tagline, a funny little part of my calling card.

Will I miss doing phone sex, when the time comes? Some of it. Will I miss a ready excuse to talk down and dirty with other people about sex? Yeah, well, I'll just have to find some other excuses, like my plays, or Sidewalk Smut. Or getting into advice territory or podcasting or sex-ed. Will I miss being tied to the house by the range of my cordless phone? Not a bit. I'm ready to return to the work if I have to. I'm more than ready to move on if I don't.

CALL OF THE DAY: Dead Soul

It will be super strange to not do phone work for four months (my time off begins this Friday).  I am used to being at home, and I like many of my callers. But there are a number of them whom I will not miss in the slightest, and he is one of them. I just came up with a name for him.

Dead Soul.

It's partly the quality of his voice: monotone, grey, dead. He starts every call with "what are you up to?" Given the kind of call that he wants to do—involving my asshole husband bringing back three or four friends from work to toy with my two daughters and use me like the saggy-assed cumbucket that I am—like, I'm sorry, there are only so many ways I can answer that question. They almost all involve getting drinks for the men and re-entering the living room to find my daughters practicing their blowjob skills.

"What are you up to?" in this case is even more of a non-question than, say, "How are you?" The latter in a casual social environment implies an interest in laying down some good will, even though you both know that you aren't going to say any more than a couple of words. In the context of paid phone work with a regular client, "What are you up to?" isn't asking for anything new or real or exciting. I know that Dead Soul is not interested in anything new. He just wants me to push "play" on the same old shit, and that question is my cue. I spin it out as best as I can, he asks me questions that are astonishingly opaque about what he wants, and the whole thing clunks and lurches on for about eight and a half minutes, until he coughs and pauses and says, "Thanks, I'll have to call you again."

He doesn't actually try to call me. He just works his way through the rota; we all have to take his calls. I don't feel singled out, the way I do with Extreme Top. But I still dread his calls.

Because not only is he a Dead Soul, he is graceless as fuck. To be fair, it is not my clients' responsibility to do phone sex gracefully. That is my job: to take whatever they bring me, their words and silences and weird jokes and reluctance, and in the middle of all that mess, to tease out their hot button—without actually asking them, "look, is this particular thing working for you?"—and push it until they come.

It's a delicate dance, and I am a good dancer. Very good. I can dance with anyone, even Dead Soul. But that doesn't mean it's not a giant Pain In The Ass, and a LOT of work on my part. Dead Soul is a shit dancer, metaphorically. He is Dead Weight. Our calls involve me lugging him through this humiliation-scene ritual, which is, I don't know, WHY DO I HAVE TO MANUFACTURE THE TERMS OF MY OWN HUMILIATION.

That is a rhetorical question. I know the answer. Dead Soul, by definition, has no soul and therefore no imagination. I mean, there are SO MANY EXAMPLES of women being sexually humiliated out in the world. How difficult would it be to go out and dip into that shit and bring some back, something more than "What are you up to?" How difficult would that be?

Not difficult for most. Too difficult for Dead Soul.

ASK A PHONE WHORE: It Came from the Search Terms!

One of my favorite thing to browse in the WordPress dashboard for my site is the search term index, that is, the list of the terms that people plugged into the search engine such that my page came up as part of their search results. I don't know how they got here, I don't know what they left with, but some of these terms came in the form of questions, which I will attempt to answer now.

I feel like calling is real

It IS real. That phone is real; did you remember to charge it up? The person on the other end of the line is real, so make sure you're nice, like you would be to any other real person. The charges on your next credit card statement will definitely be real, so either have a non-joint credit card or use a gift card next time.

Oh, you mean like you feel like it's a real relationship you're doing? It's a relationship, yes, but it's not something you are going to get to keep long term without paying for it. Sorry to pop your bubble.

Can phone sex make ppl attached?

If we're talking about unpaid phone sex between lovers, say, because they are in a long-distance relationship, or they are just strongly oriented to aural acts, phone sex is a great way to grow and develop the sex bond between them. But I suspect you mean, can phone sex make ppl, er, people attached beyond what they "should" feel for a stranger on the other end of the line? And the answer is yes, sure.

Sometimes they're people with the first question above. When you've got a skilled phone sex operator, and the chemistry is flowing, and someone is feeling lonely or otherwise not entirely connected with the people who are physically around them, then a good connection with a phone sex operator can totally happen. It is fine to have a good connection with a PSO, as long as you have wrapped your mind around the fact that you're still paying for it.

(A side note to my colleagues in phone sex, and sex work in particular: it is fine and awesome to have a good connection with a client! Yes, it is business, but it's better to like your clients than dislike them intensely.)

How can you tell a cocksucker

I'm sure there is a field guide out there on the Internet, with the different types of gay men. But you don't need that for this question. Just look around. Do you see someone with a cock in their mouth? They are a cocksucker. But that doesn't mean that they are a gay man! They might be a woman and like cock. They might be genderqueer and like cock. They might be a dude and like cock, but not identify as gay. The only way to tell for sure if someone is a cocksucker is to see them sucking cock. If you're not a position to see that, then it's none of your business.

If you are asking this question because you are a dude and like cock, and you don't know how to let other people know that you want to suck their cock, you really only have two options:

  1. tell them that you want to suck their cock. This can be scary.
  2. Grindr

The coming chaos, or, reluctantly empathizing with Extreme Top

Oh, Extreme Top, how I loathe him. His scattered focus. His casually brutal use of the N-word for erotic purposes. His appalling treatment of me and the dispatchers, from a customer-service point of view. His teeth-gritting sense of entitlement, GUH.

And yet...

I learn from him occasionally. I don't want to, but I do.

My learning from him this week came after one of our 60-minute-plus calls. These are the calls that really wring me out. I always get pissed about his handling of the 30- or 45-minute sessions, for any number of reasons, but the long-form calls are just physically exhausting, and toward the end, we inevitably get to a point where I'm just repeating a certain set of statements, over and over, like a mantra:

she's a good girl she's a slut she's a whore Tiffany is a bad mommy she's a good girl but a bad bad mommy Tiffany is a whore she's Daddy's good little whore...

Like that. I never bother putting periods in between those short sentences, because when I say it, there are no sentences. There are no pauses, there is barely time to breathe. I can't stop, because I can hear it in his voice that he is almost coming, and the more often he has to interrupt his brain to put two coherent words together—literally "don't stop", whenever there is the smallest break, like, a one-second break—the longer he will be on the phone with me. And I don't want that.

So I just roll on through, spitting out that steady stream of good girl-whore-slut-mommy. I just assumed that he got stuck, especially because he wants to hear me say her name, I assumed he got stuck on Tiffany (who apparently actually exists in his world), and needed to hear her name over and over. I am the needle stuck in that grove, or something. I never really thought about the function of that particularly method of delivering words into his head. I mean, why that way? What about that barrage of a closing makes him get off every time?

And it hit me yesterday, as I lay there and caught my breath, thinking about the chaos that I just created. That chaos happens for me, too.

When I am approaching orgasm, my mind floods with thoughts and feelings and images, not separately, but layered on top of each other. I, too, am extremely aural, so when I am with someone, I encourage them to join in the chaos, to add the audio layer to an already seething mess of consciousness.

If my partner won't do it, I will, and it works almost as well: The talky-talky noise-noise both reflects and enhances the fracturing mirror of my orgasm brain. When the mind is making like a kaleidoscope, this stream of verbiage, for some of us, is actually the only thing that fits. And that's Extreme Top, too. Our scripts at the end differ, but we're going after the same sensation, an echoing in our ears that matches the rolling images and feelings in our heads.

Dammit.

I don't want to understand Extreme Top. I hate him better when I don't get it.

Pussy-eating and poetry

I felt it two days ago.

It was with a regular I like. It usually only happens that way, with someone who I know very well and feel really comfortable with. It needs to be a fem-dom-type call, too, an interaction in which I am expected to run my mouth, in which I have to because they are in some kind of subby head space and they maybe have forgotten how to speak, and if I don't keep talking, then the line will go silent for too long.

So I am on top, I'm sitting on his face, I am at the point about four minutes into his usual seven-minute call where he will want me to orgasm loudly and wetly all over his face. It's not enough to just moan. Moaning or "oh, yeah!", that is not enough when I am trying to emphasize how little control he has over the proceedings, that I set the pace and I say what is going to happen and he better get with the program or I'm just going to run right over him.

So I tell him, open your mouth.

Open your mouth and keep swallowing, there's a river coming down on you now, there's a whole fucking sea.

Ah.

I heard it, see. I rarely listen myself when I'm talking; it imposes a constraining level of self-awareness on the interaction that would be fatal in phone sex. But every so often I do hear myself, and it sounds good. It feels good, good enough that there's a little glitch in my verbal brain, just one little stutter out of the flow to put in a pin in that moment, just long enough that I will remember to come back and explore that moment, because it feels beautiful.

It felt effective, too, in the way that good words spoken out loud to the right ears can move the listener to tears or riotous standing applause or, yes, closer to an orgasm. Powerful. For this guy, I knew it would work. But also, it was beautiful.

Everything I say doing phone sex needs to be effective, obviously. I need to get the guy there. But the words don't need to be beautiful, by my subjective standards. That is gravy, and let me tell you, most days Mama does not get a lot of gravy. Most days my callers are fine with the graphic language or a mean (or loving) tone or my fair-to-middling level of inventiveness when it comes to describing acrobatic positions. Most days anything approaching lyricism would be superfluous, wasted effort.

So I never put conscious effort into making a particular passage sing. I just focus on the sex and the emotional connection, and let the language take care of itself. But sometimes poetry happens anyway, and if I'm lucky, I'll notice it. That stuff from my subconscious, sliding up to the surface and into this call about face-sitting, that is not for them. That is for me.

ASK A PHONE WHORE: how often do you think your clients follow your instructions?

Teachers

Did you insert that piece of chalk in your ass like I told you to?

Q. Aside from really improbable/ physically unlikely things you tell people to do, how often do you think your clients actually follow your instructions?

Okay, so the bit where I tell the guy to go get hormone treatments and gradually morph into a woman with a functioning vagina so she can go out and get knocked up by a black biker gang, aside from that sort of thing, you mean?

I think sometimes? (Definitely more often than I follow their instructions.)

To be clear, I don't think they have to follow my instructions in order to have a satisfying phone sex experience. I mean, that's the whole premise of phone sex and fantasies in the first place: for some people, words—and the ideas and mental images and psychologically induced physical sensations that come in their wake—are sufficient unto themselves.

Some callers do, though. I think. I can't know for sure, but if not, their sound effects sure are realistic and I could probably learn a thing or two from them! One guy who I frequently dominate while he is in his office at work (lunch hour, locked door), I tell him to stick his fingers in his ass, report back to me about how dirty his fingers are, and then, regardless of how dirty they are, to lick them clean. If he says they are dirty, his voice definitely goes a little quavery and squicked-out and he will make very convincing gagging noises. Once or twice I have told him to stop because he legit sounded like he was going to throw up.

The callers who do follow my instructions fall into two categories:

  • they already love to do the activity I am instructing them in—eating their own come is a common one like that—and my guiding the experience is just gravy. Delicious, come-flavored gravy...
  • they have pretty thoroughly bought into the dominance/submission relationship that I am establishing over the phone, and are willing to go along with that.

If I want to give them the experience of successfully following directions, I set the bar pretty low. I give them things that are easier or lower-risk things to do, like spank their own ass (I can hear that). I think my panty boys probably are following my directions, when I tell them to stand in front of a mirror and admire themselves.

The people who don't do what I say? Some might be testing out the idea of doing something, seeing how it feels in their own head. Or they might think they are actually going to, but then chicken out at the last moment and just say they did. (Also valid.)

I have a strong dominant streak—I know, so unexpected, right?—and I'd love to do work as a face-to-face dominatrix some day, so I'm always pleased when I think someone is following my directions. Conversely, I'm a little disappointed when they've asked me to direct them but I can tell that they aren't obeying. Ultimately, though, it doesn't matter whether they are or aren't. I am getting paid to sound believable, and that includes sounding like I believe them.

CALL OF THE DAY: a mob scene

"He wanted a rocker," said the dispatcher. "When I said I didn't have one, he asked if there were any actresses available, and then I thought of you! I have an actress!" Ignoring the fact that all the girls working the phone lines are acting, and therefore should be able to act the part of an actress—just like I should be able to act the part of a rocker—the dispatcher instead seems genuinely excited that she is able to offer a caller a real, true experience of Talking to an Actress.

Of course I ask her why, and I don't mean why in the sense of "what in his sexual development made this particular thing a hot button for him?" I mean why as in, what the FUCK is this going to have to do with what he and I do for the next 10 minutes? What part of the actress experience or legend is important here? But the dispatcher can't enlighten me further, so I set the timer and take a deep breath and wait for the mystery to unfold.

I give him my default physical description—I would call it Blonde Amazonian MILF—and then he says, "So the lady said you were an actress."

Yes, I am.

"Are you famous?"

(Uh. Hmm, he's not angling for the party lifestyle, so...? Okay, just laugh.) Oh, honey, if I were really famous, I don't think I'd be doing phone work anymore, but I do have a certain amount of notoriety.

"Oh."

[PAUSE] Why do you ask?

"I was just wondering if you had ever been mobbed, you know, people wanting autographs and maybe, you know, tearing at your clothes."

(Ohhhhhh. For a split second I think, wow, I'd love to be so famous that I get mobbed, and then I think, no, actually, I wouldn't.) Well, a couple times at festivals. (Haha.)

"I know where this thing came from for me," he says in a sudden burst of meta. "I saw it happen once, really, when I was down in Mexico with my parents. I was 12." He goes on to describe how a pop star had gotten out of her black SUV near the outdoor cafe where they were sitting, and a throng of fans had actually torn some of her clothing.

With a few questions and his fairly detailed recollections, I have enough clues to go forward. Although it is beyond me to role-play in real time an actress getting mobbed—without appropriate sound or physical cues—I manage a story line focusing mostly on his sensations and visuals, being pressed up against me as I run out of things to autograph, catching the smell of my sweat and fear. He's not initiating the mob, but following along as I get caught up in the swell and knocked to the ground, tank top torn off, jeans being yanked down my kicking legs. I don't really know what I'm doing, but I try to keep focused on the rape-y helplessness of the scene, and it seems to work: he readily comes before our time is up and, still gasping, promises to call me again.

As far as assault scenarios go, this one is relatively mild, and with these things, I always figure, well, there are people who fantasize about being attacked. Other people are going to want the other side of the fantasy coin. In fact, I am reminded of my Revenge of the Nerds guy.

These clothes, I remind myself, they aren't going to rip themselves.

CALL OF THE DAY: “I have no limits”, or, the mating call of the armchair sub

Took a call from a new-to-me-sub last night. He's obviously been watching a LOT of fem-dom potty porn—"I have no limits," he said, HAHAHAHAHAH those armchair subs can be hi-LARIOUS—but after I figured out what I could get away with in terms of dismissive contempt, I had a good time.

Which doesn't always or even usually happen, right? Not even with these sub calls. In lifestyle power exchange, what's being exchanged is solely power, and the players have an exchange, I want to try this, let's do that, not so much of this, hah, but maybe you need it for your own good because I am your master and you need to get used to it. Those exchanges can and do happen. The interpersonal back-and-forth of power is right there. But in paid work, the dom has much less power; I think this is at least as true in face-to-face work as it is in phone work. We have the power to take the call or client or not. Some of us can set our own hard boundaries. But really the scene is about what the client wants.

In face-to-face encounters where no money is involved, I can say "no" to greedy, entitled little bottoms who want to use me for their own satisfaction and don't care about whether I'm getting anything out of the encounter or not. At my company, though, I don't get to turn down calls, so I have to listen over and over to guys saying, "Anything goes" and then proceed to lay down their laundry list of narrow-focus needs. This... irritates me. Now, I understand. This is fantasy, and fantasies can be done however you want. The client is paying; it's what he wants. Futhermore, it is not part of the deal that I get to be personally challenged and engaged for any of my calls. But hey: it's nice to have fun when you can. When I get a new sub, I wanna see how mean I can get. Now THAT'S a challenge! Too mean and they could hang up. Not mean enough and they could hang up.

Last night I found the zone with this new sub. He gave me enough hints with his little "I have no limits" monologue that I could hit the ground running: I told him to piss in a cup before we were five minutes in—"no domme has ever made me drink piss before," he said, his voice shivering with anticipation—and asked him if he had any toys or anything on hand.

"No, this was kind of a last-minute thought."

I see, I said, and filed that away, not before reprimanding him about the need to affix "ma'am" to any answer he gave me. (His voice got even more shivery during that lecture.)

Eventually we got to the point where I had him get his finger wet, stick it in his own ass, and then pull it out and lick it. It was inevitable, of course; potty play + pegging + submissive + no fucking toys = stick it and lick it. I made him swish his finger around really deep and well, and I made him look at it first. Is it dirty?

"Yes, ma'am!" He was whimpering a little.

Do you normally clean your ass out before sessions with those other dommes?

"Yes, ma'am!"

But you didn't this time, because it was a Last-Minute Thought, isn't that right?

"Yes, ma'am!"

You need to plan better, you little pervert. If you had planned better, you would have cleaned out for me, and you would not now be getting ready to stick that nasty dirty finger in your fucking mouth, would you?

"No, ma'am!"

So it seems that either you like sticking your shit-covered finger in your mouth, in which case this is not a problem, or you will remember next time and not do a Last-Minute Call. You will get cleaned out and you will have some fucking toys on hand, because I cannot really pound your ass properly with just a finger, do you hear me?

"Yes, ma'am!"

*****

I think I was a drill sergeant in a past life.

my ideal client

I have preferences in clients, of course. In my current work situation I don't get to use those preferences in any way that might benefit me. I don't control my marketing, nor do I get to select or screen who I talk to. But I still have the preferences. I keep them in the little break room of my mind, where the worker me goes to hang out when things get weird. There, up on that metaphorical bulletin board, I pin special moments, and lines from my favorite customers, and little sound bytes. To remind myself, you know.

The guy I did yesterday is on that bulletin board. He is a gentleman from North Carolina, with a soft, high-pitched, almost delicate voice, who likes to talk about the women he spends time with over at a brothel a half-hour away. "They like me there because I love pussy," he says, claiming that they will let him eat them out for free on Sundays because it's usually slow and he's that good.

If I had to come up with a nickname, I would call him the Sniffer. He likes smells, all the smells: well-fucked, unwashed cunt, pee, sweat, ass crack, body odor. (I compared him to a wine enthusiast and called him a connoisseur; he loved it.) He also likes hirsute women, with unshaven pussies—"it holds the smells in better"—and hairy assholes and armpits and legs and hair goin' up the belly. He likes cellulite, jiggly asses and thighs. And he likes older women, MILFs on up to 70-year-old ladies. In fact, the Sniffer seems to be drawn directly to all the things that our society tells us aren't sexy, and he goes into marvelous detail about his enjoyment, with gusto and little exclamations of delight.

Even when he comes, he can describe what is happening with his feeling; "it's going up my spine and trickling down my forehead like beads of ice water." I mean, that's fantastic  The Sniffer is so detailed and enthusiastic that he actually freaks my boss out a little bit. This is funny to me, considering the other callers that we handle. And on that little checklist pad of preferences, he just goes tick, tick, tick, right down the list:

SELF-AWARE. My preferred client has spent some time figuring out what they want. They pay attention to the stuff in their own head. If they like something that is illegal, they are obviously aware of the differences between actuality and fantasy, and they are comfortable navigating that line, which leads me to ....

UNASHAMED. They do not waste any of their precious minutes circling around their fantasy, or coming up with something else to supposedly throw me off the trail, or excusing it or avoiding it.

HEDONISTIC. They are going for the sensations and experiences and fantasies that they truly enjoy. They are having fun with it, not only with the fantasy, but with the phone call itself, and with me. They love their orgasms, too, and have created the space around the call where they can come as loud as they want.

COMMITTED. They really throw themselves into it. If they step outside of the experience at all, they do it cleanly and explain themselves—"hang on, honey, I need to go check on the ribs in the slow cooker"—and then step right back in.

ARTICULATE. Phone sex happens through the words and sounds. When I have to make all the words, it is a performance, with all the burden that entails. When they contribute, and do it well, it's less a performance and more a dance.

Strange as it sounds, I love to dance with the Sniffer.

CALL OF THE DAY: “is anyone there with you?”

We chatted a bit about what I looked like, and what I "did for work" (um....), but he moved pretty quickly to what was important to him: "Is there anyone with you right now?"

EEEP. Such a short sentence, illustrating two of the primary rules of paid phone sex:

  • The way they ask questions tells you the way they want them answered.
  • Say "yes, and..."

The first rule relates to listening. "Is there anyone with you?" is a different question than "there isn't anyone with you, is there?" First construction calls for a coy yes, most likely, while the second version is begging for a reassuring no. Easy to read, but uh oh. Answering this short question the way he obviously wants it answered, while following the second rule ("yes, and") leads me to the edge of a very slippery slope. The caller wants someone there with me, and I don't know who or why. I don't think it's a pedo call; usually those guys will lead with asking whether I have any kids, and probably the dispatcher would have mentioned it. But sometimes it's not in their client files, and I don't know for sure. Proceed with caution...

Not right here with me, but my lover is in the next room.

(He's not at all, I'm just trying to temporize, give myself a little more time to  figure out what's going on.)

"Can I talk to him?"

(See, this. This is what I was afraid of. I can't say yes to this. I don't have the skills to switch to a male voice. What to do, what to do. ... I know! I'll go with in-charge, slightly mocking laughter, while I figure out what to say...)

HAHAAHAHAH, NO, you can't talk to him, are you kidding! (Um... oh, yeah, control the situation, set the boundaries...) You aren't paying enough to talk to him! That is a whole different kind of call! What do you want to talk to him about?

"I want to hear him fuck your ass."

(What does he mean by that?)

What do you mean by THAT? I mean, you can't talk to him! He's not getting paid to be a part of this. And I hope you know it takes longer than <checks timer> six and a half minutes to get really into anal.

(Whew.)

"Okay, well then, I want to hear him fuck your pussy."

(For fucks' sake...)

Anyway, we just had sex this afternoon.

(Okay, that answer is not going to hold him for long...)

"What, he can't get it up again?"

(He had to go there...)

RUUSSSSS! <pause> RUSSSSSS! Can you come in here for a second? <pause> Yeah, this guy is calling into question your masculinity. Can you just stand over here by my head? Yeah, and get those boxers off. <pause, and direct the next comment to the caller> You're gonna have to give me a minute or two to get him hard.

(Slurpy noises. I can do slurpy noises.)

"Aw, yeah, have him fuck your throat."

(Okay, now we're back into familiar territory. Gagging on virtual dick is way easier than  playing the voice of my lover. Anyway I just had some cheese puffs, so my fingers taste pretty good.)

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