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Archive for Phone Whore

CLASSIC CAMERYN: downtime

I was going to write something about the dead days, like today, where I got one call at 10:30am and that was it. And then I thought, maybe I better check back through the archives to see if I'd already done one on that topic! So I went back to look, and lo and behold! I had written one about dead days, almost exactly two years ago, and it was also on a Wednesday in February. Hmmm. The article remains 100 percent accurate—the only thing that has changed is that I'm staring out the wintry window at Montréal, not Boston. So, I am officially calling that particular post a "classic". Go back and read it! It's only slightly depressing!

Oh, and you'll read in the article where I say that there is no formula for which days might be banging and which might be dead. I think we can safely say that there is some anecdotal support for the assertion that, for my company, at least, and only on average, February tends to SUCK ASS.

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CALL OF THE DAY: my bilingual papi

He's an ass man, a bit of a chubby chaser, dominant but gentle, mmm... yeah, I'll admit it: he's one of the few callers I think wistfully about from time to time. He's fun, too, in unusual ways. For example, he likes to celebrate holidays. Around the winter holidays, he talked about taking me outside and rubbing snow on my nipples. On his birthday last year, he tricked me out in a bra and garter belt set two sizes too small and asked me to do my best impersonation of Marilyn Monroe singing 'Happy Birthday' while he pounded my ass.

This is my bilingual papi. I call him that because he likes me to call him papi—at high pitch and volume—and he is most definitely bilingual. He is fluently, almost lyrically horny in both English and Spanish. The first time I did him, I remember he asked if I spoke Spanish, and I said no, but I learn quickly. He said, "We'll see about that."

"Say it in Spanish, dammit!" Mmf-mmm-mm-HMMFF!

"Say it in Spanish, dammit!" Mmf-mmm-mm-HMMFF!

I don't think he's been disappointed. The front of his stack in my card box doesn't have the usual measurements or genre abbreviations on it, no: it's mostly just a cheat sheet of Spanish-to-English gutter talk. The phrases that I have written down are a good indication of what is important in this phone relationship we have...

muñeca (doll)
esclava (slave)
maltrata me/viola me (sp? meanings should be obvious, if you know your Latin roots...)
but then
yo soy tuyo para siempre (I am yours forever)

Yes. He gets romantic. He likes to hear me whimper "te amo" in between rounds of ass fucking, and has talked about putting a ring on my finger and kissing me deeply while fucking my ass. (Oh, yes, "chinga me culo" was one of the first phrases I tried on him, and he ate it up.)

I think he enjoys teaching me this stuff. I remember one day, in my mind it will be forever known as "the pop quiz call".

"Tell me you love me, your king."

Papi, I forgot how to say it!

"Then you get a spanking. Today you get everything in Spanish, and if you forget, you get spanked. Now say it!"

Papi, I don't know!

"LET ME HEAR YOU BEAT THAT ASS. [he pauses for my spanking] Te amo, mi rey."

Te amo, mi rey. [pause to catch breath] Papi, my ass hurts.

"I'll kiss it for you. Tell me to kiss it."

Papi, please kiss...

"IN SPANISH."

Papi, you never taught me that one!

"I don't care, spank your ass anyway!"

Rough usage, yes. But today he used a new word, hermosa, as in mi muñeca hermosa. I looked it up.

My beautiful doll.

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Call of the Day: lust and loathing from the littlest mommyfucker

Before I start, I want to clarify something. Since last November, I have been adding Call of the Day posts not necessarily in chronological order. That is to say, sometimes they are calls that happened actually that day, or maybe the day before. But sometimes they are descriptions of calls that happened 14 months ago. See, in November I realized that I had been doing a lot of call descriptions on Facebook over the previous two years. I wanted to concentrate my phone-sex commentary in this blog and, in most cases, expand the snippets into proper posts. So I gleaned all of my "call of the day" status updates, and have been finally writing up those older interactions, as well as more current ones.

So. Why the housecleaning opening paragraph? Because I want to update you on a particular caller, and his chronology here is a bit fucked up. If I didn't clarify, it would seem as if everything with him has happened over the past two months, when actually it's been unfolding for at least two years.

He is my youngest mommyfucker; he plays at being a petulant, demanding little boy, showing off his tee-tee to mommy and throwing little temper tantrums until I let him suck a grown man's dick. In this post, I describe him and what I like about our calls. (The post is dated 12/27/12, but the call I'm talking about in it is probably from, oh, I don't know, late fall of 2011?)

And then came his call on April 30, 2012. I had written it all down in Facebook; that's why I can remember details. That night his voice went younger, but not that young, and he sounded unsure and a little sad.

"I want to touch men's penises, but I don't want to. I'm confused. ... We play at things, you and me, and talk about things, but these are things that really happened. My daddy touched my penis."
...
Baby, I have to ask you a question. Are we still in storyland?
...
"A little."

Okay. [PAUSE to breathe carefully] You can tell me about anything, you know that, right?

"Yes. I was really glad you were here."

Did something happen tonight that made you think about this?

"I don't know, I'm just feeling different, I'm feeling confused. He touched me and that was wrong, and I didn't want to like it, but I did. And I don't want those men, but I want to be loved by them. I want older men."

...

Honey, can I ask how old you are?

"Fifty."

...

Ah.

"I really do want a daddy, but I can't play with that, I don't want to want that."

[PAUSE]

Honey. Oh, honey. I know, I know.

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When I wrote up this call 10 months ago, I was careful to note that I did not know, a priori, if any of what he told me was real, but that didn't matter, because whatever he said he wanted or seemed to want was what I needed to give him, and what I gave him was listening. That was true, and remains true.

And then? I didn't take another call from him until Feb. 12, 2013.

Five days ago.

When I check cards and see that I actually did use to talk to a customer regularly, but it's been that long, I'm never sure how much they'll remember, and I don't want to show that I know too much about them, either, so I give us both an out with "I think we've spoken before, but it's been a while..." and then I kind of let my voice trail off and take my cue from them. This guy didn't miss a beat, he said, "Yeah, I couldn't call you back for a long time. I was scared. I didn't want to call you back because during our last call I went to some really weird space."

We talked about that a little more, and then we ended up talking about Daddy's dick, and he got really manic and a little scared again, so I quickly interrupted: honey, do you want to go there right now? All he could say at that moment, because he was getting ready to come, was "yes, yes, YES".

Sigh.

I'm not a therapist, but I hope to god he's getting one, or at least a girlfriend who can listen really, really well, because this is getting close to the boundary of things I am not capable of...

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“Who calls on Valentine’s Day?”

I wrote about this a little back in December, when several people wondered out loud to me, "Who calls at Christmas?" As it turned out, only two people called during my shift on December 25, and they were both seven-minute calls, so I didn't get a chance to ask them more about why were they calling a phone sex line on a major national holiday and DIDN'T THEY HAVE ANY FAMILY TO BE WITH.

Just kidding. See, I'd never ask them a question like that, because a) it's none of my business; b) not a sexy question; and c) still none of my business.  I'm also hesitant to linger on that issue, because it could easily go in the opposite direction, as in "don't I have any family to be with?" And the answer was no, but it's not a depressing no, so I don't spend a lot of time worrying about it.

Darn it, I wish we didn't need both hands to use these phones!

Darn it, I wish we didn't need both hands to use these phones!

But yeah. Valentine's Day is another one of those big holidays where people wonder. It's the perfect set-up for a really hack joke, about lonely dudes and phone sex and wow, isn't that sad.

Psht. These things are only sad if you assign disproportionate value to whatever trait or familial and/or relationship constellation is being celebrated by the holiday, whatever it is that "makes" that day special. If you believe that Christmas is all about biological family and long outings in the snow followed by hot chocolate around the fireplace and "God bless us, every one!", then yeah, the idea that, on that special day, people seek out physical release or emotional connection from someone they pay, that might seem a little weird.

Similarly, if you believe that Valentine's Day is all about that special someone (just one!) and intimate dinners and impractical romantic gestures, and that everyone needs that one person and if you don't have a special one, that is a end goal devoutly to be wished, and you should be putting all of your energy toward getting that in your life... well, if you believe this day is all about that, then obviously in your view, someone spending on phone sex what they could be spending on dead flowers and a heart-shaped box of second-rate chocolates, they are making the wrong choices in life.

Don't get me wrong. I like getting together with friends and having sex and eating fondue and going out on great dates and making snow angels, all the stuff that goes along with these kinds of holidays. But I can get that action any day of the year. The big holidays like Valentine's Day or Christmas are arbitrary and invariably ramped up, in a capitalist society, with lots of pressure to buy in. Literally. There is something you're supposed to be spending money on, or at the very least, some activity that you're supposed to be spending your time on. If you don't buy it, if you're not into it, people look at you funny, anyway. And if you turn around and spend that money on sexy times, well, let's just frost that weird little cake with a thick layer of social stigma and you can eat it.

That's what's going on here. Really.

So, I don't know who calls on Valentine's Day, or St. Patrick's Day, or New Year's Eve. All different guys who, for whatever reason, want a little sexytime off the holiday grid. You can stop asking now.

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CALL OF THE DAY: suddenly… a wild rim job appears

He's a real regular, with three or four cards paper-clipped together, the columns of recorded calls thick with

7 min (7) req.
     7 min (7) req.
     7 min (7.5) req.
     7 min (7) req.

His scenario, up until about three weeks ago, has always been the same: I'm an older woman—like, silvery-gray-hair-old—we meet, he eats my pussy until I come really loudly, and then missionary-style fucking until he comes really loudly. How we meet, and where, what I'm wearing... the set and costumes change, but the underlying plot stays the same. He only ever buys the 7-minute package, so that's about all we have time for anyway.

Don't get me wrong, I am not complaining about the repetition! I like knowing what a caller wants; it may be boring, but it's also way less stressful than having to feel my way blindfolded around a psycho-sexual interior landscape of a new caller. Even if I were bored with this caller, I mean, I do get bored with other callers, but my boredom or excitement doesn't matter in these interactions, so it's not like I'm ever gonna say, "Sweetie, do you mind if we tried something different today?" It's just not that kind of relationship.

So we've been going along for over three and a half years, and I've been occupying myself with new ways to get him to brush my hair away from my neck and start kissing down my throat and along my collarbone—he's particularly fond of that approach—and suddenly, a few weeks ago, he says, "Hey, I wanted to try something different." And it's not like the other times where he says that, and then goes on to say, "Today will you start out wearing a swimsuit?" No.

This time he says, "I was wondering what it would be like to have you be more... dominant."

REALLY.

We never had done that, he and I. In the scenarios I lay out, we have always been ... I don't know, just, power dynamics have never been a part of it. I mean, yes, in a meta-sense I have always been in charge, but in the fantasies, that's not been a hot option. It's never even come up!

Are you sure? Because it's a little dirty...

Are you sure? Because it's a little dirty...

So I don't know why he suddenly decided to change. And I don't care that he is switching me over to the dominant mode that I use a lot on the phone lines. It's interesting because it's coming from him. Everything I thought I knew about the way he wanted phone sex is shaken up a little. I can test out new things, like... well, for example, this last time I asked him, very tentatively, how he felt about rimming, and he said, "I love it." THESE ARE THINGS I DID NOT KNOW, until that moment!

He came hard and well, and afterward, during the cool-down moment, I joked about it: good to know that there are still lots of things for us to explore. He laughed and laughed, and said, "I'm glad you asked about the rimming!"

Me, too.

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CALL OF THE DAY: the Strangulator

I call him... the Strangulator. (Duh-duh-DUHHHHH.)

Hey, don't judge me and my dramatic names. I have to amuse myself somehow.

Anyway, the Strangulator is a mild-sounding older gentleman who, in his fantasy, wants to rape me and then kill me. His set-up is almost romantic, as he lingers in loving detail over my hair, my beautiful body, what I am wearing (inevitably black lace panties and bra, and sheer black stockings). He has narrative reason to know what I'll be wearing because in the fantasy he's been watching me through the bedroom window. He doesn't specify for how long he's been watching me, but the intimate, honeyed tone of his voice makes it feel like weeks or months.

That's all deeply embedded backstory, if anything. The important thing is that he rapes me—and that he is able to say that he is raping me, over and over—and that is the last time I'll ever be raped. No, fucked. Actually he says it both ways. The inadvertent political echoes of "last time you'll ever be raped" make me curl my lip in scorn and something else, because sometimes women get raped more than once. Sometimes it's chronic.

He is one of the callers who tripped me out the first time I did him because I have had such limited exposure to the activity he's fantasizing about. Not the rape part, I know all about that. I have friends who have rape fantasies, I've dabbled a little myself  The snuff part, the part where he chokes the breath out of me and keeps violating me. That I don't know a damn thing about. I DON'T EVEN KNOW HOW TO PRETEND IT. I don't watch horror or thriller movies. In historical movies, when someone is being hanged, I always avert my eyes. I don't watch violence in movies at all. Maybe I've read about being choked? On accident.

So I don't have much to go on, but I made a routine, and it seems to do the trick: protest verbally for a couple of minutes, let out whimpers and gasps for three or four minutes, and then do short, soft choking noises for the last four or five minutes. I think in real life it'd be over a lot sooner, but I don't know. Like I said, it works for him.

You know what works for me, when I have to do this and other scary-feeling calls? Finding the kink parallels. I have talked many, many times before about how the incest/pedo calls made more sense and stopped freaking me out when I thought of them as age-play sessions and compared them to dynamics and stories that I've shared with daddies of mine. Similarly, Mr. Strangulator here fantasizes about raping. Well, there are women, lots of 'em—and men!—who fantasize about being raped. Both sides of the equation are being played with.

Personally I find it harder to keep from being affected by a fantasy if it is actually really in line with prevailing attitudes or sociological phenomena or crime statistics. I feel less stressed out when my callers bring me rape fantasies with themselves as the target. I guess then it's easier to believe that they don't really want it, couldn't possibly want it. When the Strangulator calls, or any of the guys call wanting to rape me? Well, it just feels like more of the same shit that's out there in the world. Bleah.

But again.

There are people with rape fantasies going one way. If that's fair game, then the other direction has to be open for business, too.

He used to just hang up, but after the first few calls he has taken to debriefing with me afterward...

"Did you say you were married?"

Yes.

"Does your husband know you do this kind of thing?"

He doesn't know all the details, but yes, he knows.

"Good, Well, you take care of yourself now. I'll talk to you again soon."

Bye, I say, apparently arising from the dead.

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whore’s pasta and cold coffee

It's even more whorish--and delicious!--with chopped green olives in it.

It's even more whorish--and delicious!--with chopped green olives in it.

One of my new favorite pasta dishes is pasta alla puttanesca, loosely (ha ha) translated as "Whore's Pasta". It's made with all stuff that keeps forever in the fridge—capers, olives, anchovies, garlic—sautéed up with some onions, diced canned tomatoes, chili flakes, and olive oil, and oh fuck, is it delicious. It keeps really well once cooked, and it's even good for a bruschetta topping, or swiping bread chunks through, for something a little less glam.

Supposedly this recipe came from the brothels of Italy, where "women of the night" either didn't have time to go shopping often enough for fresh foods OR weren't allowed out to the regular markets but once a week, to keep them from mingling too much with "good women". This is probably bullshit—Wikipedia traces its invention to the mid-1950s and an upscale restaurant whose owners no doubt thought they could make a slightly scandalous splash with the name—but it does point out one of the challenges of trying to keep a regular life going under the demands of doing work that exists off the grid, around the clock, and outside people's awareness.

I'm not even going to get into other kinds of sex work; I haven't had those experiences. I just want to talk about food and phone sex. THEY DON'T PLAY WELL TOGETHER SOMETIMES.

Assume for the sake of this discussion that my goal is to stay on call as much as possible...

  • I have to time my grocery trips for before 10am, when the phone lines open, or else I will have to sign off in the middle of the afternoon and do the run then. Yes, sometimes I want that break, but it's still time away from the phone.
  • If I want to cook something that requires me to pay attention and/or react to very narrow windows of cooktime, say, with tempura or sugar cookies, I have to sign off. I don't often want to make those particular things, but even if I have things that do not handle being overdone—really anything except soups and stews—I have to be paying attention to the timer and either have someone else take them off the heat or fumble around with potentially loud/disruptive pans while talking with a client. Which I do not like to do.
  • Whatever I'm eating, I have to be ready to stop eating it if the phone rings. I mention pork chops quite a bit; that's because the phone often rings when the pork chops are fresh out of the pan and ready to eat. The only thing worse than a cold pork chop is a cold lamb chop.

Now, I am happy to be talking about tempura and lamb chops. I recognize my food privilege here; after a childhood of a certain amount of food scarcity, I am glad to have food now, however cold or slightly scorched or sleepily prepared.

But it is just one area in which the little constraints of doing this work pull tighter sometimes. I am hemmed in, not by law, thankfully, but by time, by the chronic, pervasive tug of gotta-make-that-money. Even writing this post, I got interrupted to take a 15-minute call from a regular who wanted his ass pounded. That's the way the coffee cools. The way I make my money waits on other people's pleasure. And that can, and does, happen no matter what is on the stove.

CALL OF THE DAY: the man with attainable goals

He was as close to average in my line of work as I can think: middle-aged, middle American accent, not incredibly articulate, but not silent, either. It was a 10-minute call, which is probably the average length of call for me. And his fantasy—watching two girls getting it on together and then sticking his dick in at the right moment—well, frankly, that's not just average, but pretty much clichéd, in the arena of fantasy sex sports.

What made him incredibly rare was what he said, not during the call, not as part of the fantasy, but at the end, after he had come down, gotten his breath back, and we were just chatting. "Have you really had a threesome?" Yes. "Oh! Well, I haven't yet, but I will. I'm gonna do that some day."

He wasn't wistful about it, and he wasn't even sleazy about it. This was him, setting goals.

People ask me a lot if I think that what I'm doing is therapy. I know they are thinking about the callers who want incest fantasies, or massive homoerotic gang-bangs, and by "therapy", they mean do I think that I am helping those callers heal or find closure or find acceptance within themselves for their desires. And I say, occasionally, maybe, but usually not. That's not what they're calling for, and no WAY would I ever even lean that way in guiding the call. I'm NOT a therapist, and I'd be hella nervous about inadvertently fucking someone up!

let's figure out what sort of advanced training you might need for that...

let's figure out what sort of advanced training you might need for that...

But now, goal-oriented plans aimed at getting a new and attainable sexual experience... that's a different sort of therapy. I could get behind doing that kind of therapy, because when I'm doing calls that are, in fact, within the realm of ethical, legal, and physical possibility—especially if these are activities that I personally have enjoyed and would wholeheartedly recommend to others—there's definitely a part of me that would love nothing better than to send them appropriate reading material with the pages marked and a list of fetish resources in their area.

So, yeah, I gave my caller liberal encouragement  when he said he wanted a threesome in real life, told him that it was totally attainable. I don't know about his persuasive abilities or negotiation skills, so practically speaking, I don't know how achievable it is for him. But he sounded very determined, and as I hung up I thought, you know, he might actually pull that one off.

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CALL OF THE DAY: lead singer in the ass choir

He is one of my ass men, not the archetypal one, the one that made it into my play Phone Whore, but this caller is still quite noteworthy, and not just because he has the same first name (and spelling!) of one of my brothers (eep!). No, people could actually learn a lot from him, for both phone and in-person sex. That's why I'm honoring him today, for his ...

Can I get an amen for that ass?

Can I get an amen for that ass?

1) Enthusiasm. Now, it doesn't hurt that he's got amazing extemporaneous speaking skills and a deep, swinging Southern accent—have I mentioned that I'm a sucker for Southern accents?—but when he waxes eloquent about my ass and what he wants to do to it, I swear to GOD, sometimes he sounds like a preacher raising his arms up to the roof and calling on the choir to join him in praise. He is liberal with the "Good God!"s and the "Lord have mercy"s, but he's not too religious for the occasional "oh my god, girl, that sweet little pucker of yours is drivin' me CRAZY!"

He rarely runs out of verbal steam, but even when he's taking a break, when he has to step out of the whirlwind for a moment to catch his breath, he still stays in the game with grunts and groans in response to what I'm saying, "uh huh" and "oh my god". All that non-verbal noise tells me that he's connected, even when he can't actually tell me himself in words.

2) Attention to detail. A few days ago, when he described how he was going to lick my slit from ass to clit, first of all, he didn't phrase it that way, as catchy as that particular formula is, from a poetic point of view. No, he said, and I quote,

"Girl, I'm going to dig my fingers into those ass cheeks, crack you wide open, and start right there at the small of your back, gonna lick you down. By the time I get to your pussy, uh HUH, that is getting nasty down there, by the time I get to your pussy my nose is gonna be right up in your asshole and my face is gonna be wet from all that drool I'm dripping down."

See what I mean? That is a lot of detail, AND it's realistic, too. This is a gentleman who has either spent a lot of time eating asses or has thought a lot about what actually goes into it. I mean, I cram as much detail as possible into my calls, but my skills have been honed by working so much. This guy is, apparently, a natural.

Both of these trait—verve and detail—give me a lot to play with. His calls are easy, because he already brings a lot to the sandbox. Sex should be like this more often.

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the death of imagination

His voice was dull and colorless as he asked me about how old I was when I first had sex and had I ever had a gang bang. I spun out my best teen-slut stories, trying to find his hook, but his voice never changed and he just kept asking questions. At seven minutes into his 10-minute call, I said to him sweetly, "So, we have about three minutes left. I just want to make sure that you're happy before we have to go."

"Well, it's all right," he said, almost apologetically. "I have a hard time getting hard these days. Maybe tonight I'll think about some of the stuff you told me and try again. I'm 56 and you know, when the imagination goes, it's just... that's the end of it."

When he said that, my heart fell a little. Not because it was really outside of any scene and I knew that we weren't going to get him there on that call—I knew that already—but because a) he's right, and b) that is a terrible place to be. Never mind his dick, he couldn't even get his imagination up anymore, or he felt like he couldn't, which is functionally the same thing.

viewmaster

one simple blow job takes up a lot of photo wheels...

I mean, cuz WHOA, imagination is what phone sex is built on. I think it is what all good sex is built on: what's in the head. It's one of the things that separates us from the rest of the animal kingdom. We are not constrained to rut when needed for the survival of the species, and therefore we can fuck however we want, and that includes across every virtual surface we can create in our heads. There we can play with things that are not; we can fuck anybody, real or imaginary, dead or living; we can imagine ourselves with physical traits that are not sustainable in the real world. We can flip through other people's teen-slut stories, for example, like we would click through a View-Master and pause, enjoying our favorite scenes.

This is one of the awesome things about phone sex, but it takes two people to get there, and both have to be using their imaginations at least a little bit. I can be reveling in the glorious porno that I'm weaving in my head, giving my best sound effects and throwing together the most powerful teen-slut narrative ever, but if he's not playing along, if he has no room in his mind to play, hell, if that's not even his fantasy but he brought it up because THAT'S WHAT SOCIETY TELLS HIM HE SHOULD WANT... then no, there will be no orgasms with that.

I'm sure I told him something like "it's not dead, you just have to dig a little deeper for it." How else could I have said it? "We can revive it, you're just going to have to come out and play more often." That sounds like fishing, like a really obvious ploy to get him to call the service more regularly, and that's not what I'm talking about. I don't care who he does it with: with another PSO, with a wife or girlfriend, by himself with his virtual View Master.

This is an emergency, man. Your imagination is dying. Get in there, pull everything out, and PLAY.

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