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Archive for Phone Whore

The Phone Whore’s All-New Search-Term Review (and Advice Column)

training bra

I feel humiliated just looking at this thing.

Every now and then I like to look down at the stats page here and check out the search terms. In other words, how are people finding me via the Internet?

Most people find this site the normal way, or at least in a way that I find flattering—oh, look, they remembered my name!—they are searching for my name or some mangled version of one of my show titles. There are a whole bunch of encrypted_search_terms, which is a result, I think, of new privacy options for Google search; it just means I've got a load of searchers who don't want anyone to easily know what they were looking for. But below that is all the good stuff. Here I dug in to the last three months. Really, I'm just curious, but maybe I'll be able to answer some of the questions that led them here!

Mother and daughter porn. This and variations are heading up the list, with 29 searches winding up here for that. Hahaha, SORRY GUYS.

Interestingly, the Big Black Cock hits have dropped considerably since the last time I did one of these search-term reviews. There are three for that specific phase, two for "watching my wife getting fucked by big b", which I have to assume would continue as black cock, and just got truncated (a shame for anything having to do with BBC). And then one more for "what to do with a big black cockz", which may be incorrect on two different levels, but that's okay. I understand the question, and the answer is, obviously, FETISHIZE THE FUCK OUT OF IT.

With three hits for "how to throw cum in far distance", and one apiece for "spooge throwing" and "sex olympic moderation cumshot", I see my infographic from earlier this year, about how far can a male actually jizz, got some little bit of attention. Having had the privilege of measuring at the Montreal masturbate-a-thon power cum competition back in May, I can answer that one, too. For best distance in cum, either a) be a woman who can squirt hard or b) AIM UPWARD, DUH. Most of the guys that were going for distance at the Masturbate-a-thon apparently forgot that they were intending to try for distance and just squeezed the whole thing downward. In general, aim past or over your target, not at it.

"humiliation bra", a new-to-me search phrase, got one hit. Sounds uncomfortable, or at least embarrassing! I Googled it myself, just to see what they might have been going for, and yep, it's mostly sissy or slut humiliation erotica. Huh. Well, guys, when you're looking for a humiliation bra, it's important to know just what it is you want to be humiliated for. If you want to be humiliated for knowing what you're doing with female undergarments, get a very very small cup size—one that fits your man-boobs—and don't let the straps show too obviously. If you want to be humiliated for wearing a bra at all, get something with lace and make sure that the fabric of your shirt is quite thin.

Signs of progress, or, my bitchy domme grows up

naked ass

All right, put your hands down and start wanking. We only have two minutes, you know...

I didn't start out good at phone sex, you know. I started out with a mild case of the shakes after every call, and there was at least one hang-up there in the first month, and I'm pretty sure that if you talked with my friends from that time, they would tell you that at least once a week I would pop up in a chat box going I DON'T UNDERSTAND THESE FUCKING WANKERS.

I still get a little nervous before each new caller, but I have gotten better, which is never more obvious than when I do a caller from a long time ago, like I did today. He didn't remember me, but I remembered him. I have notes on the card, see, and they told me all the things that went wrong the first time around.

BITCHY DOMME, it says on the top. That's what he wanted me to be, or what the dispatcher interpreted from him and passed along to me. Then in the space for notes about him, it reads, BRATTY BOTTOM, WATCH TIME, SPIT/SPANK, NO ANAL. That last one is underlined. Oh, dear. I flip the card over. Yep. The last call was in January 2011; that's over two and a half years ago. Clearly our last conversations didn't go well enough for him to call back and request me, and that is backed up by the notes. "Bratty bottom", when used in a pay-for-sex environment, means that he asked for a bitch, but isn't putting up with any of it. "Watch time", well, look at those numbers: 12 minutes on a 10, 8.5 or 8 on all the 7s. Yeah, he likes to push the clock. And "no anal", that's pretty clear, especially when it's underlined like that: spank his ass as much as I can, but under no circumstances should I let those fingers slip through the crack.

I caught up with all of this in maybe five seconds of silence, but that was still long enough for the dispatcher to wonder what the fuck was going on: "Are you there?" Yep, yep, I said. I just haven't talked with him for a while. And then I waited for the call to go through, my mind spinning overtime, what to do, what to do. Now, I could have sat back and been more passive this time around. But I thought, no. We'll give this one more shot. If he wants a mean domme, I'm going to give it to him. Two and a half years ... that's a long time ago. I don't think I had mastered my meanness yet, and he probably picked up on that.

And the call  ... it went well, actually! I described myself, and let him tell me what he's done that he needs to be punished for. Jacking off in the neighbor's hot tub, huh? When I talked to him, I could hear right away what I meant by "bratty": he interrupted constantly, barely letting me finish a sentence. Hah. I'm the one who gets to cut you off, buddy!

So I did, and I let my impatience and disdain show through more than a bit, and gradually I could feel the call narrative settling firmly back into my grasp. By the end I had him bent over the patio table, one hand holding him down by his neck, and the other giving his ass cheeks a right going-over. I interrupted the spanking to say firmly, we have two minutes left, I need to let you know, and then I yanked him upright and marched him to the edge of the patio. You want to show off for the neighbors that bad? Well, show them. Jerk off right here. I don't care who is watching over the back fence. Do it, you dirty fucking perv, come for me. And he did, 20 seconds under time.

Afterward, I laughed and said, well, that is a good way to start the week! He laughed a little too and agreed, and then said, "What was your name again?" I told him, and he said, "Great, thank you. I'll talk to you again soon."

I don't believe him. But I'm still pleased. Look how far I've come in making strange men cum!

CALL OF THE DAY: variations on an unexpected theme

He is not so sentimental as to not use the phone service when I vanish for weeks on end, but he always finds me after I get back and begins requesting me again. I'm glad, because he is unfailingly polite and nice. His fantasies are also polite and nice, too, which is... well, nice.

For the longest time we did the sultry older woman thing, with wavy silver-grey hair and everything. He liked to press on me from behind, on a hot day, and smell and kiss the sweat from my neck. I would always be wearing something lightweight and summery, and at some point he would set me down gently on whatever sturdy piece of furniture was available in the scene we had painted, lift my skirt, eat me out until I came, and then enter me and thrust until he came.

All that in seven minutes, so there's never much room to improvise too freely, but he's so sweet and obviously enjoys the stories, so I just shrug my shoulders and spin out the sweet vanilla strands that seem to tug him the right way.

Lately, though, it feels like we're circling around the hot spot for him, and it's not as vanilla as I originally thought. For a couple of months before I left on tour, we played that he was a much younger man—like, a 14-years-old younger man—and I had to instruct him in all this. Huh.

And for the last few calls he has specifically asked for me to dominate him, and to "go ahead and be mean". Er. I can do this, don't get me wrong, but it's shifting up a few gears at once, if you know what I mean. While he's in me, he wants me to forbid him from coming, and if he does come, I need to tell him that his punishment is eating his own cum out of me afterward.

Yes. Not quite as simple as he used to be. Still nice, though. He still thanks me afterward. I asked him one time, after he came, if that is something that he would actually do, eating out the cream pie that he made. "Sure," he said. "I think you should be willing to try just about anything once."

See? Nice guy. I'm glad he's digging a little deeper.

ASK A PHONE WHORE: “Do you think phone sex is sex work?”

ASK A PHONE WHORE is a semi-regular feature, appearing whenever I get a good question. Anything you want to know about my phone work, ask away! Make sure to read through the archives here to see if I've already addressed your question in a previous post, or to see if I've written about something already and you have follow-up questions. I may set up a separate page here to solicit questions, or maybe just put a widget up, but for now I'll be running my mail bag over on Facebook.

Q: Do you consider your work in phone sex to be sex work?

This actually wasn't in my mailbag. It's just a question that's been asked of me before, and then variations of it got tossed around in the comments section of a post of mine that got picked up by Thought Catalog and then XOJane.

I know better. Never read the comments.

But I did, and there in the comments were people saying that phone sex wasn't really sex work, it's not the same at all as hand-jobs in an alley. In that same comment thread, someone else said that lumping escorting and stripping and porn and phone sex into the same category of work has never made sense to them.

If anyone reading this has had the same thought, let me explain how I make sense of that, with an analogy that I use a lot when talking about my phone sex work: restaurant work. Okay, stick with me.

Restaurant work covers lots of different kinds of work—everything from developing and testing a $140 plate of air-spun shrimp roe dip to discussing appetizers at a steak restaurant to handing a sack of cheeseburgers through the window of a drive through—and in fact, when talking about the specific pros and cons about a particular kind of restaurant work, you probably want to name that work: Waitress. Sous chef. Fry cook. Maitre d'. They are very, very different, involving different degrees of interaction with the customer. You have auxiliary positions supporting those interactions. But at the base, they are all involved with satisfying the customer's gastronomic appetite in some way.

Similarly, sex work is aimed at gratifying the consumer's sexual appetite, and sometimes catalyzing it in the first place. I do believe that all of those different jobs I list above—stripping and pro-domming and escorting and phone sexing—fall into the category of sex work. Even though they involve different levels and kinds of engagement with the client, they are directed at taking care of the consumer's sexual arousal. (Possibly there's orgasm in there, but not always, as in the case of pro-domination work and tease-and-denial scenarios. I also don't think strip clubs generally want guys to actually pull their dicks out and wank right there stage side. So, I'll just say sexual arousal.)

I'm not sure where in this taxonomy people like porn directors and erotica writers fit in; their work is clearly aimed at turning the customer on, but I haven't seen them traditionally clustered together under the umbrella term "sex work". I also am perennially bemused by the slightly blurry line between stripping and burlesque; I am sure some strippers are very artistic, and I know a number of burlesquers who work the crowd for tips. These are questions for other posts, and probably other blogs entirely. I can only talk authoritatively about phone sex, and only my experience of it, at that.

I have always said that phone sex is the safest form of direct sex work. It does not carry the same dangers as face-to-face escort work: I don't have to watch out for the cops, for example, or scope out emergency exits, or leave a call-back number with my check-in buddy. It is not as risky, from a public-recognition point of view, as acting in porn films or doing web-cam work. Phone sex allows me to work in comfort and safety and anonymity, if I choose, and I have never said otherwise.

And yet. Phone sex does carry stigma, in much of society, if I cop to doing it. It involves going into my clients' sexual imaginations, sometimes to places that most people would not want to go. When people do learn about the places that I go, I am regarded with suspicion or disapproval or anger: aren't I throwing fuel on these sickos' flames? And for those 7- or 10- or 20-minute calls, when I am focused on the functioning of strangers' dicks, dicks that I would not choose to talk about on my own time, and yet I am tuning in with every quivering ear hair to figure out how close they are to coming...

... Then sure, there may not be exchange of sweat or other bodily fluids involved, there's no danger, but there is still work. Sex work.

CALL OF THE DAY: Return to Duty

military domme

Obviously I'll have to get this altered after I get those 34LL implants...

Today was my first day back on the phones since July 25, an unprecedented seven-week gap in my availability. Someone had to be driving the welcome wagon—unless today turned out to be one of those fortunately rare no-call days, that would be a shitty way to return to work—but I was dreading that first call. Not dreading so much as fearing it. Like, what if I forgot how to do it? What if I get Extreme Top? What if I spent so much time in the show (34 shows in six weeks) that I got hooked on the four "calls" in the script and lost my improv skills that are so crucial to the actual work?

The first call came in at around 10:30am. Of course it wouldn't be an archetypal Return to Duty moment if something wasn't being interrupted: in this case, it was hot coffee, an oven-warm piece of quiche, and freshly cut fruit. My billet host and my Montréal lover were sitting around the table, and even though I had done the usual sign-in and got my index-card box ready and reminded them to be quiet if the phone rang, we all froze for a split second.

"Hi, this is Cameryn." As I said it, I felt the rhythm and tone settle into my vocal cords; okay, I remember this.

The owner normally works dispatch in the mornings, and today was no exception. She welcomed me back with more than usual warmth, and when I admitted to her that I was actually a little nervous, she laughed and said, "You've never said anything like that to me before! And don't worry, you won't forget." We chatted for a bit about the tour, but I finally said, oh god, please, who is the caller? She said his name, and I didn't even need the number, I had it memorized: Titty-Fuck Rosary. A request.

Now, he's not my absolute favorite caller—for reasons I talk about here—but he's certainly pleasant to work with. He's polite, he's specific about what his current hot buttons are, and if his calls don't tax my creativity in the slightest, he is often good for a repeat call. He sometimes doesn't judge his own turn-on level accurately, but he never blames me if he doesn't come during the first 20-minute session.

Today we went straight to the harder edge of his fantasies: I am a Third Reich dominatrix, with platinum blonde hair under the officer's hat and 34LL tits sporting swastika pasties. (I don't even know if letters have any meaning in bra sizes at that point, but whatever.) And he, being an N-word with a big N-word cock... well, obviously he must acknowledge my racial superiority, as embodied in my enormous Aryan titties that I am brutally fucking his huge black cock with. I will demonstrate his inferiority by making him spray all over my gigantic, creamy-white, Nazi tits.

If there's one reminder that I can always use, it's this: human sexuality, man. It is astonishing.

Why even other sex workers “don’t know any phone sex operators”

I am staying two nights in London, before I head up to the Edinburgh Festival Fringe to present 25 nights in a row of Phone Whore. A London stay could be expensive, but my UK tour sponsors, the Sex Worker Open University, found me a billet at a "working" apartment, a place that an escort is using during the day for appointments. This means that I have to spend large swathes of the day out in cafés looking for internet access, but I'd be doing that anyway, so...

This is one example of that rare species, Phonus Coitus Operativa...

This is one example of that rare species, Phonus Coitus Operativa...

So, I was chatting with my host last night about my performances and my decision to not go independent with phone sex because it would interfere with my writing and touring, and then she told me about her photography work and how she'd love to maybe photograph me sometime. One of her projects is portraits of other sex workers, and, she said, "I don't know any phone sex operators."

This is something I hear often from ... Muggles? squares? the mainstream?... let's just say non-sex workers. I didn't expect to hear it from a politically active, well-networked escort. But it makes sense. In fact, I started knowing this way back when I first started, that most phone-sex operators—that is to say, PSOs who only do phone work, and don't combine it with face-to-face work—aren't particularly visible in sex-work politics, or indeed anywhere.

We don't need to be. After all, phone sex is one of the most anonymous and safe forms of sex work. It is legal in most states and countries, and it's relatively easy to hide from people who aren't sharing a wall with your work space; let's call it "customer service" or "call center work". Safety, anonymity... if you've got something to lose, why risk it by going public?

I certainly struggled with this when I first started. I had serious roommate woes for the first six months after I started—the sex noise was a real problem for wooden floors with gaps between the planks—and when my case worker for food stamps pressed me for details about my new job, I blushed and had to whisper.

But when I started doing Phone Whore, that all went by the wayside. I had to talk about my work, often and openly, and in conjunction with my picture, too. So I did, I learned how. I dove into writings by other sex workers, online and in $pread magazine, observing how people talked about what they did. And then, bolstered by the support of my existing friend network, I went forth and made new friends, not hiding what I did that made it difficult for me to go out and visit people, that made it SO MUCH EASIER to come visit me. I'm a born activist, so speaking up in public—about my job, and about the fact that I do consider it sex work—became a lot more natural for me, the more I did it.

Now I have reached the point where I tell border agents. THIS IS NOT HARD FOR ME. They may look at me funny, and occasionally smirk, but again, phone sex is legal, so what do I have to lose? I've disclosed countless times crossing the US-Canadian border, in both directions, and now the UK boys got it, too, when I was detained at Heathrow for six hours yesterday. They basically got my pitch: I'm here to perform my solo show Phone Whore, which is based on my work as a phone sex operator. Yes, that's how I make my money in the States.

If people have never met a phone sex operator, it will not be my fault.

*********

If you liked this post, be sure to browse around some more. I’ve been blogging about my work in phone sex for almost four years, since six months after I started in April 2009. And if you live in the UK, you’ll have a chance this year to hang out with me while I’m on call! Okay, not really, but that’s what my award-winning solo play Phone Whore feels like, and I’m bringing it to the Edinburgh Fringe Festival Aug. 1-25, and then to five other UK cities through mid-September. Follow those links to read all about the tour and my show, and if you do make it out, come up and say hi!

CALL OF THE DAY: wait, why are we talking about this?…

This is not in any way sexy...

This is not in any way sexy...

He is a recent acquisition, both in terms of the company (the caller ID numbers are assigned in chronological order, from their first call) and in terms of him finding me. I think the first time I talked with him was this past winter.

He is not an easy man to talk to about sex; he seems to be naturally reticent and the fantasies he has cause him a certain amount of anxiety and self-loathing, even when he's in the middle of them. But sometimes, like today, he gets on a kick of "normal conversation", and then he's positively loquacious. Today he ended up doing two 30-minute sessions, and of that time, nearly two-thirds of it was... not about coercing teary-eyed 12-year-olds.

We got off that track because the owner of the company has been actively telling any caller who has ever requested me in the past year that I'm taking six weeks off for vacation. Even though I told the owner three months ago that this was coming up, and reassured her that I have every intention of returning, she is very traumatized by the impending separation—apparently many of my regulars, even the ones who treat me well, treat her like shit and yell at her, that sort of thing—so she has been asking me to tell people, too. I think I've been very good in how I handle the discussion, reminding the callers that there are other good PSOs at the company that they could talk to while I'm gone, and not really going into too much detail when they ask me what I'm up to for six weeks. I mean, they don't actually want to know about the Edinburgh Fringe, or even about the idea of my having any other life outside of phone work. All that matters is that they're not going to have their favorite wank facilitator on call for six weeks.

SO. Most of my regulars don't really know or care. But this morning, maybe I was sleepy or something, my usual defenses were down, and I told this guy, when he was asking about my vacation, that it wasn't really a vacation, that I was going out to performance festivals. And he asked about that, and we got into Canada in general; I tried to turn focus around on him, then, and asked where he would go, if money and time off were no object, and he got OFF ON A TEAR about Fort Alamo in Texas, that's where he really wanted to go next. He really wanted to go there; he had all the history down pat. Whoa

Around then that 30-minute call ended, and he called me back for another one, and started off this one saying, "I hope you don't mind, but what is your background, you know, your college level?" Again, I normally deflect—oh, I have a bachelor's degree—but in a few cases I've expounded a bit, and again, today I was weak. I gave in to my ego. I told him, yeah, I've got an education. Bachelor's degree in a foreign language and not an easy one (Russian), master's degree in arts administration, a certificate in dance instruction, I'm a writer, along with everything else. He said, "You know, I was going to guess journalism. There's something about the way you talk that is really straightforward. I like it."

Within a few minutes after that, I decided enough was enough. He only had seven minutes left in this second call, so I asked him, hey, did you want to get dirty today, do you think? He asked me to describe myself unwillingly giving him a blowjob, and somewhere after my fourth bout of choking and gagging, he hung up without saying goodbye.

I'm not sure whether he enjoyed the rape fantasies or the "so-what-do-you-REALLY-do" conversation more. Doesn't matter on my end; I gave him a good time either way.

*****

If you liked this post, be sure to browse around some more. I’ve been blogging about my work in phone sex for almost four years, since six months after I started in April 2009. And if you live in the UK, you’ll have a chance this year to hang out with me while I’m on call! Okay, not really, but that’s what my award-winning solo play Phone Whore feels like, and I’m bringing it to the Edinburgh Fringe Festival Aug. 1-25, and then to five other UK cities through mid-September. Follow those links to read all about the tour and my show, and if you do make it out, come up and say hi!

ASK A PHONE WHORE: “what do you like best about your phone work?”

ASK A PHONE WHORE is a semi-regular feature, appearing whenever I get a good question. Anything you want to know about my phone work, ask away! Make sure to read through the archives here to see if I've already addressed your question in a previous post, or to see if I've written about something already and you have follow-up questions. I may set up a separate page here to solicit questions, or maybe just put a widget up, but for now I'll be running my mail bag over on Facebook.

I'm picking up some mommy issues in the lower register...

I'm picking up some mommy issues in the lower register...

Q. What do you like best about your phone work?

Honestly, there are a lot of things I like about doing phone sex. I like the fact that I can wear no bra and jammies all day, or nothing at all if I don't feel like it. I like that I can focus on everything else between calls, so that even on slow phone days, I'm still getting a lot done. I like how portable the work is; gimme me a landline, or at least decent cell phone reception, and I can do it anywhere. I hope it's clear by now that I like my nice regulars; there are a number of them with whom I have very good relationships, and I'm particularly happy to do their calls.

But you asked me what I like the most, and I think it's the thrill of doing a first call right. By "first call", I mean a client who is new to me. The dispatcher might give me a few bits of information about what he wants, but it's very little and it might be wrong or misleading or completely irrelevant to what he actually wants to talk about. The only thing I know is that I know nothing about this guy, not really, and I have 10 seconds to find the right vibe and 45 seconds to find the core of his desire, and then seven minutes, or maybe 10--depending on how much time he ordered--to get him off.

These first calls have some of that adrenline rush of a first date, magnified and compounded by the a) time constraints and b) money exchange. The clock is ticking and he has already bought into the promise that I am a sexy bitch who can meet his every desire halfway. That's a fair bit of pressure.

I try to be alert and attentive during all my calls, but I'll admit it: for first calls, I am ON. If I wanted to listen any harder, I would have to figure out a way to push my ear through the receiver. I listen constantly for their reactions to what I say and adjust accordingly: backpedalling, moving faster, slowing it down, twisting it there. I have learned enough about how to carry on those conversations, certain approaches or key phrases or buzz words that I can almost always count on to lead me to the truth of the caller's fantasies, but I have to be paying attention for those approaches to work. It's risky, at any second the train could go off the fucking rails, but it's thrilling, it really is a rush.

Ah, and doing a first call "right"? I should have defined that, too. Getting a call "right" simply means getting him off, in the time allotted. But doing a first call "right"? That's when the caller gets off AND asks for my schedule at the end. He wants to find me again.

********

If you liked this post, be sure to browse around some more. I’ve been blogging about my work in phone sex for almost four years, since six months after I started in April 2009. And if you live in the UK, you’ll have a chance this year to hang out with me while I’m on call! Okay, not really, but that’s what my award-winning solo play Phone Whore feels like, and I’m bringing it to the Edinburgh Fringe Festival Aug. 1-25, and then to five other UK cities through mid-September. Follow those links to read all about the tour and my show, and if you do make it out, come up and say hi!

Call of the Day: Who’s my daddy?

This last Sunday morning was a bad morning. My Boston lover had been in town last week, but I had gotten my period unexpectedly in the middle of it, so all my plans for fuckery and general romantic sleaze—including a long-anticipated threesome—went right out the fucking window. I had hoped for the flow to stop before Boston daddy had to go home, but Sunday morning arrived with no abatement. Then I was cooking brunch for Boston Daddy and Montreal Foster Daddy and one of my hosts, a really delicious omelette, and of course the phone rang. Make it a chef's scramble, I hissed to my foster daddy as I scurried out of the kitchen, phone in hand.

"It's your favorite guy," said the dispatcher with a heavy layer of sarcasm.

Shit. Extreme Top.

I have written about Extreme Top here, and here, and here. Look, I never promised that my Calls of the Day would be Callers of the Day; honestly, Extreme Top calls enough, and pushes enough of my buttons, and talks SO FUCKING MUCH, that I could do Calls of the Day only about him for months and not run out of material. But you all would end up hating me for it, so I haven't and I won't.

ANYWAY, the call came just in time to ruin my omelette presentation, and when I found out it was Extreme Top, I let out a huge sigh and the dispatcher asked, "Now what?" I told her that my lover was leaving in the next 15 minutes and I wanted to say good bye properly; thanks to my period and being in a festival, I don't feel like I got enough quality time with him on this visit, and I won't be seeing him again until late November. I think she could hear the lump in my throat, because she relented and offered to call me back in a minute or two, so I could say good bye.

So we did, and I got more and more teary-eyed with each kiss, but eventually Boston Daddy was strong for both of us and walked out and closed the door behind him, and I took the second call for Extreme Top. I covered my eyes with my hand and tried to pull it together; he wants my voice to sound young and submissive, but not crying. Not right away, at least.

"How are you doing, baby?" he asked.

Fine, I said. I'm fine.

"I want to make you come hard," he said. "I feel like last time you got off easy. I want you to come a lot today."

Yes, Daddy.

*****

Extreme Top wants me to call him Daddy; it is part of the fantasy that he spins. My lovers in Boston and Montreal also like me to call them Daddy; this is part of the different games I play with them. They're my good daddies, because they love me and actually want me to feel good. Extreme Top is my bad daddy, because he is an asshole customer and pretty frequently interrupts my brunch plans, too.

They are two sides of the same coin, though, as little as my good daddies want to hear it. They all share three things in common: they want me to be a slut. they want me to come. And my really big orgasms sound the same for them all: "daddy daddy daddy daddy," over and over and over and over, until I run out of breath.

*****

I didn't want to come for Extreme Top that day. I always have to work hard for him, it's really hard on my voice, and that day I was so far away from my sexy core, owing to my period and being tired from the festival and Boston daddy's departure and the failed omelette, that I had to dig really, really deep. (Ah, yes, I reminded myself, this is acting!) Somehow I managed to find the muscle memory, and I worked myself up to it.

But when I started saying "daddy daddy daddy" in the middle of my pretend-orgasm, I felt my body go through the physiological shift too—clenched muscles, arched back—and I remembered that Boston Daddy was on the road, and Montreal Foster Daddy was sitting out there on the other side of the closed door, and I had only 11 days before my really hard-core touring starts, and after I leave I wouldn't be with either of my good daddies for a long time. They are both really supportive and loving, and that's exactly what I needed when faced with an international flight and a European tour. But it's Extreme Top who gets to hear me give in.

Against all rational thought, I got angry. Why does Bad Daddy get that? He doesn't deserve it!

I know, I know, I have to give Extreme Top what he wants. He's the paying customer. It's acting with him, more than with almost any of my other client, bsecause I despise him so much. I don't mean it at all when I say "daddy" the way he likes me to say it, and I can live with it, most days. But not that day. That day I wished that his fantasy life and mine didn't intersect in that particular way. I wanted to yell at him, stop just stop, I can't do this today.

That day, I "came" five times in 35 minutes for a man whom I hate, and I mock-screamed "daddy daddy daddy daddy" until my throat hurt, which didn't take long because that lump in my throat stayed with me during the whole call. And as I said "daddy" over and over, lying on my back, staring up at the ceiling, the tears leaked out of my eyes and trickled down to the back of my neck.

He thought I was overcome, gasping after I "came", but really I was just trying to keep from weeping out loud.

I want my daddies, not you.

*****

If you liked this post, be sure to browse around some more. I’ve been blogging about my work in phone sex for almost four years, since six months after I started in April 2009. And if you live in the UK, you’ll have a chance this year to hang out with me while I’m on call! Okay, not really, but that’s what my award-winning solo play Phone Whore feels like, and I’m bringing it to the Edinburgh Fringe Festival Aug. 1-25, and then to five other UK cities through mid-September. Follow those links to read all about the tour and my show, and if you do make it out, come up and say hi!

True confession time

  • Hmmm... I need something that says "hot-model horny slut", something with a REALLY absorbent crotch...

    Hmmm... I need something that says "hot-model horny slut", something with a REALLY absorbent crotch...

    When I don't like a caller, I will start the timer as soon as they say hello. And I am watching that clock the whole time

  • There are a few callers whose required audio feedback is so primitive that I actually can quickly check Facebook updates and not lose a beat.
  • Occasionally—especially late at night, when I'm lying on my bed—I have dozed off for a second or two in the middle of a call.
  • Pro-tip: to recover from those moments, I just laugh knowingly and say, "I know, you dirty boy."
  • When I like a caller, I might start the timer as much as 10 or 15 seconds late, and I can let it run up to two minutes over their time. You can get a lot of post-coital interpersonal bonding done in two minutes.
  • "Princess" is my go-to nickname for my cocksuckers. Depending on the narrative context, I will say it lovingly or mockingly, but it is pretty much standard.
  • Pro-tip: as much as I love the words for myself, "slut" and "whore" are also at the top of the deck for mean cocksucker calls.
  • I don't jack off during calls—only one time, early on, and I never did it again—but a couple of times I have continued fucking, when things were hot and heavy with someone on my end and a call came through in the middle. I did it mostly because the sound F/X matched up really well.
  • Tiffany and Janelle are my daughters' names (pre-teen and teen, respectively). Always. I can't be bothered to make up new shit for every new incest call.
  • Peeing surreptitiously while taking a non-pee-related call is tricky, but I have done it.
  • Pro-tip: Peeing slow only makes it that much louder. Piss fast, during a part where you are talking non-stop or having an orgasm.
  • When I am on tour and taking calls on my cell phone—versus using a landline—I try to get my callers off as quickly as possible within the allowable limits of under time (two minutes under the time package they purchase). International roaming charges suck; why would I rack those up?
  • I don't receive submission calls often, and I hate them when I do, except for Bilingual Papi, partly because he allows me to be bratty.
  • If a caller's line is full of static, I only say "what?" twice and then I just forget about understanding and do my best to give feedback based on the tone of his voice.
  • I dread guys asking to buy my panties. I wear a size 26-28, and usually the description they get is more a 12-14, and I don't want to have to go out and buy a package of smaller panties just for that. (It happened once, and I bought the fakes, but the guy's wife ended up intercepting the package, so the company refunded his money.)
  • Pro-tip: If you're going to be ordering things from your PSO and hiding them from your significant other, get a goddamn PO box first.
  • I frequently use the names of real people in my stories—current or previous lovers, especially—because I have a hard time remembering the cast of characters otherwise.
  • One ex in particular gets trotted out to be the "bull" in the "real-life" BBC/cuckold fantasies; it gives my voice the ring of truth because he actually did have a decent cock, but I also do it because I know he would hate participating in such a scene, and I like to think his balls itch a little every time I drop his name.
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