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Archive for Phone Whore

CALL OF THE DAY: burning out is more annoying than I thought it would be

In the last six months or so he’s become something of a regular, much to my dismay, because he’s got a thing for ass-to-vadge—in addition to his foot fetish and trigger phrase of “hairy cunt” and his sly, whiny voice—and something about all of this together has always made me feel a little icky.

People have asked me why this bothers me and not, say, the incest stuff. Because, yeah, I’ve handled much more graphic content, subjectively speaking. I think I’m dealing with two different things here:

  • a caller’s fantasy is less likely to bother me the closer it is to some of my I do age-play, remember? and
  • it’s more likely to irritate me, the closer it is to something problematic that I regularly see depicted out in the world, either in porn or what people actually do in sex. Hence ass-to-vadge, or insisting on “she-males” passing, etc.

And then there's how the caller presents himself. This guy is not even mean, he’s just insistent, which yes, is something I see out in sex tips. Lately I am being particularly set off by his insistence that I orgasm two or three times in a 10-minute call.

There are logistical reasons for my reluctance to do so. For the past six months I have been billeting in other people’s houses, with walls of unknown thicknesses separating my room from the neighbours’ flats; one orgasm can be excused as a thing, but three in rapid succession is stretching credibility. I’ve also been on tour, which means I have to take care of my voice, and fake orgasms are even harder on the vocal cords than real ones!

I can tell some of my guys that I can’t be loud; oddly enough, Extreme Top has been very good during the times when I am either protecting my voice or taking calls in a place where I can’t be loud. He accepts my quiet whimpers and manages to get off just fine.

But this “hairy cunt” mommyfucker is one of a cadre of callers who demand only the “best” and the loudest from me, and they won’t come without me coming, and if I accidentally or casually give them a second orgasm in the middle of a call, then they demand that from me ever after, until they get jaded on that and want a third one, etc.

It’s too much now. This is the sign of me burning out, I realized: when I can’t be bothered to act turned on, and faking an orgasm annoys me, and in the middle of my anger, I want to freak out and tell them The Truth, like “your stripper hates you” kind of truths.

In that moment, I give myself teeth marks on my hand from biting down hard enough to keep myself from screaming BUT "HAIRY CUNT" IS THE GROSSEST PHRASE EVER AND YOUR WHINY SLY VOICE DISGUSTS ME AND THE WAY YOU TALK ABOUT PUTTING YOUR DICK FROM MY ASS TO MY HAIRY CUNT MAKES ME THINK THAT YOU KNOW NOTHING ABOUT SEX HYGIENE AND ALSO THAT MAYBE YOU ARE TRYING TO DEGRADE ME BECAUSE YOU THINK THAT HAIRY CUNTS ARE NATURALLY GROSS AND SO WHAT'S A LITTLE BIT OF GERMY ASS JUICE IN A GROSS HAIRY CUNT FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FINE I'LL COME A SECOND TIME FOR YOU FINE I'LL BEG YOU TO FUCK MY HAIRY CUNT FUCK YOU…

In that moment, I realize that I will never get that relief that I crave so much from telling off all of my annoying customers. I will never be able to give anyone a loud sex-ed take on whatever physical act they just described. I will never be able to sit down and ask a caller, so seriously, you know stealing underwear is some shady shit, you may need to think about a contingency plan if your girlfriend ever figures out what you’re up to.

I will never be able to turn on Extreme Top in the middle of one of his more baroque concoctions and say, YOU STUPID, UNIMAGINATIVE, WANNA-BE DOM, I AM QUITE SURE THAT I COULD ACTUALLY KICK YOUR ASS, AND BY THE WAY, THERE IS NOTHING YOU TELL ME THAT ISN’T ALREADY ON FETLIFE SOMEWHERE, JEEZUS CHRIST, STOP ACTING LIKE YOU PERSONALLY DISCOVERED SCAT, INCEST, AND BUCKETS OF BABY EELS.

I can’t say any of this stuff to my clients; I can’t do a grand “fuck-you” screed at the end of my time on the lines. That would hurt my company, and I don’t want to hurt my company. They’ve been good to me. So… I have to keep going with the fake orgasms, and the only real satisfaction I will have is the only satisfaction I have ever had: blog posts and Facebook status updates. It’s not enough, but I guess it has to be.

*****

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CALL OF THE DAY: too many thanks for the wanks

I’ve said before that good phone-sex clients, in my book, say “thank you” at the end of their calls. Bad clients hang up like I'm an automated phone system; good clients say "thank you" or some other kind of acknowledgment that a) I am human and b) I just gave them something that they needed.

Now I feel I have to clarify. A good phone-sex client says “thank you” briefly and then moves on.

Unlike the Gusher.

Now, I know this word is most commonly used as a nickname for women who squirt a lot, but if you were to hear the Gusher for even at few seconds, you’d understand both the moniker and my motivation for giving it to him. He only gets seven minutes, and usually only uses 5 or 6 of them, but nonetheless the Gusher can spend up to 20 percent of his time on the phone with me, THANKING me for what I just said.

Because I want clients who thank me, this was at first a great boost for me when I talked with him. After a while, though, the Gusher’s closing approach has started getting under my skin.

I just don’t understand his excitement, quite. It feels disproportionate. I mean yes, hooray for getting off, but his fantasies aren’t that extreme, not to me and not even statistically. Probably they feel pretty extreme to him, especially if they’re some of those deep, dark, sexual secrets that many people don’t even tell their partners, apparently.

I can tell that the Gusher feels a little weird and/or bad about having these fantasies; his voice trembles quite a lot the further we get into it, and that’s only partly related to his age. Yes, he’s definitely an older gentleman, possibly from the Midwest, with a formal style of speaking and some pretty Victorian notions of corporal punishment.

After nearly seven years of talking with him, I have a pretty good idea of his spectrum that he’s going to be choosing from when I ask him something like, so what’s tickling your fancy today? I really do know his hot buttons; hell, at this point I can touch-type on that control board in his mind. To him, of course, it’ll feel magical, because I can drop us into it vividly and right away, but that is merely a function of familiarity, and also the fact that he has told me this stuff, in various forms, all the time.

That doesn’t really matter, though, the actual facts about how I got all of that information about his fantasies. The only thing that matters to him is that maybe this is the only place where he gets to wallow in it. These few minutes every other week is all the time he has to ask for the lacy panties, to beg to see my tits. In light of that, yes, thanks are in order.

But the effusiveness … it’s a little off. The strength of his gratitude tells me how much he needs it. His fervor leaves me feeling uneasy and sad, because he is clearly not getting this kind of psychic release out in his own world. I don't know what his circumstances are, and I never will, but it’s not just a wank when his thanks are that fucking thankful.

*****

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CALL OF THE DAY: choose your own adventure, goddammit!

He doesn’t let me into his life, not even in a bullshit, made-up sort of way. When I ask him what he’s been up to since we last talked, he always says, “nothing much, just working.” Which, fair enough. That’s what a lot of people do. But he knows that I travel—with only the vaguest sense of why—and so he asks me what I’ve been up to. This is a tricky question.

The answer either needs to involve young boys—I mean pre-teens—or young barely legal men, and stories like that are not the tricky part. I’ve done variations on both themes, but with this guy I never know which he really wants, and he’s not telling. THAT is the tricky part.

More often than not he will switch up on me, after I’ve been going along at a good clip along one track, getting deeper and deeper into the narrative, such as it is. We’ve really developed this scene for six or seven minutes, and then suddenly he’ll say, “So what else have you been up to?” And that’s my cue, that we are jumping tracks, which means that I now have two minutes to start from ground zero, develop the plot, and get him to come. It feels as though he’s trying to jam two full-length feature films into a sexy three-minute trailer.

I feel more than a bit manipulated. The part of me that wants to keep people happy, this is the part that will let him go on and on and over the time limit, because he hasn’t come yet. He knows this, and at least partly believes that it’s entirely my responsibility, because he often demands it of me, in a way that is no less urgent for being entirely irrational: “Make me come, make me come!” If we’ve had to interrupt the story and start from the beginning again, well that’s okay. People change their mind.

But that other part of me is keeping one eye cocked at the timer, and it’s clear very quickly that he’s going to go over. I have no problem giving him the two-minute warning, and then telling him I have to go once he hits the upper limit of his over time (1 minute over). But it’s always work I’d rather not do, that I shouldn’t have to do if he hadn’t dropped onto a different track when the original time package was almost up.

I want him to choose, because my choosing is so rarely right. I can’t tell if I’m actually making the wrong choice all the time, or if that’s just the way he likes to operate. Why shouldn’t he? I mean, he gets a nice long appetizer followed by a quick and dirty main course, and more of that than he actually paid for. Sounds like a deal to me!

I finally told him in our most recent call, told him to choose for himself. He responded by saying, “Which one turns you on the most?” (because lately he’s been getting into me coming, SIGH). I had to bite back a sharp retort—NEITHER ONE TURNS ME ON, YOU IDIOT—and instead said, no, sweetie, you choose, I like ‘em both, but it’s more important what you want. Also, I added, because I was really sick of going over time with him, we need to pick one and stick to it. I always end up going over time with you, and I can’t do that.

“Oh,” he said, as if that problem had genuinely never occurred to him.

*****

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True lies and the smell of belonging

I know that my callers are possibly/probably/definitely lying, depending on what we’re talking about. The more illegal or messy or “extreme” their fantasy is, the less likely it is that they are doing it in real life. I have to behave as if I believed my callers, just for better phone acting—I don’t want to sound skeptical or second-guess them, obviously—but that’s never really a problem. Some guys make it extra easy for me to think they’re lying.

Like the Sniffer. From the first call I took with him, I never believed in the existence of Wanda’s, his favorite brothel. I do think brothels exist. I just don’t believe that some brothel in the nearly rural South is just coincidentally staffed by a lot of the types of women that the Sniffer happens to like—older, very hirsute, chubby-to-fat, willing to stay “stinky”—types that are not commonly sought after out in the rest of the world. I doubt that he could walk in on a slow Sunday, as he says he normally does, and just pick out two or three stinky, hairy ladies who are willing to give him a free pass to eat out their well-fucked pussies and have them piss on him. There’s too much “that’s not the way the world works” in there.

So I’m used to having to stretch my mind to accommodate the Sniffer’s universe in it. I didn’t think he could lie any harder. He didn’t need to. Just stop there, sir. The tissue of untruth is getting might see-through. But no. He went ahead and put down another layer of bullshit.

He claimed, with all sincerity, that a work-from-home fraud protection representative called to check on some charges on his bank card, specifically the charges that my phone-sex company had processed, and when the Sniffer told the lady what those charges were for, and what he talked about during the phone sex sessions, he said that she not only did not hang up on him, but asked him questions about his fetishes and listened to him jack off toward the end of the call.

He said she sounded fascinated. I said, I bet. He said, “She kept asking me for details and so I gave them to her.” I said, Of course it sounds interesting. I bet she hasn’t really run across anything like this before. Meanwhile, my mind drifted to all of the non-sex phone workers I’ve heard being angry—and rightfully so—about dudes being sleazy at them during a work call. All of them would shut that shit down; none of them would consent to sit there and listen to a man jerking off. They don’t get paid enough for that. Hell, I barely get paid enough for that. Another lie.

But as I agreed and nodded and encouraged him to talk about this phone encounter that almost certainly does not exist, I realized that it’s not just his kinks that he wants indulged; he’s also got a fairly detailed fantasy about how other people feel about these kinks.

That is, by talking about the abundance of stinky, hairy, and charitable sex workers at the local brothel, or pretending that some random older lady checking on his credit card activity would be so interested in his kinks as to give him free phone sex, the Sniffer is creating a fantasy world where his kinks are common. He’s mixing up the bits where he’s special and unique with a world where he is welcomed as a sort of sexual connoisseur, where he could have his choice of lovely (by his standard) ladies with which to frolic, where he could randomly run into women who share his thing, who celebrate it.

Some people thrive on being an outsider, but most want to belong. Apparently even the Sniffer.

*****

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CALL OF THE DAY: “She won’t understand”

My surfer dude is one of my few callers who has ever referred to his partner in our conversations, not in a sexual way, but in a “hey, this person exists in my life, and she’s amazing, but I couldn’t tell her the sorts of stuff I do with you” way. That’s a direct quote. So, since he was being really up front about this, I asked the logical follow-up question: why can’t you tell her? And he said simply, “She wouldn’t understand.”

I did not press, because that is not my job, to be a consciousness-raiser and sexuality coach. (Maybe it could be? I’ll get back to you on that. But definitely it is not something I do for my callers.) As far as I know, Surfer Dude is still with his girlfriend, and he obviously hasn’t told her, because he’s still calling me at least once a month, so that I can pretend to be a sexy female UPS driver delivering a new dildo and I catch "Wendy" watching porn and we can do some sweaty, hot, girl-on-girl frottage and pussy eating..

But that one sentence has remained emblematic for me, of the dilemma that so many people face when talking with their partners about their desires: “They wouldn’t understand.”

First of all, we don’t know that "they wouldn’t understand." When it comes to sharing our deep-down sexual truths with a partner, well, we hopefully have a good sense about our lovers’ general open-mindedness and adventurousness or what-not, we don’t know for a fact whether or not they will understand until we share our thing, until we open that door of mystery and see what's behind it. Self-disclosure always carries a risk. Someone who seems strict or uptight may be totally down, and someone who is otherwise very chill may have a private trauma in their past that they are reacting with. Or maybe it is just very strongly Not A Thing for them. We don’t know, so, strictly speaking, “they might not understand.”

And anyway, them not understanding is not the actual fear, is it? There is nothing to fear in someone looking at you blankly, or asking for repeated clarification, or finally, after 30 minutes of careful back-and-forthing, shrugging their shoulders and saying, “I just don’t get it.” Unspoken in that sentence is what we fear what might happen after, if they don’t.

What lies there, in that heart of fear? What might my surfer dude actually be afraid of? What are we afraid of, when we imagine our partners’ incomprehension or non-acceptance of our desires or fantasies or kinks?

  • They might leave us, too disgusted by our revelation to be in our presence for one more day, one more minute.
  • They might laugh at us, and share our secret with others so that they may laugh too.
  • They might report us, if our fantasies are very extreme and on the other side of the taboo line.
  • They might look at our life together as a lie, if they believe, as many people do, that fantasies must mean something in real life.
  • They might look at our life together as a lie, if it turns out that our fantasies actually do mean something in real life.
  • They might look at us as a liar, someone who cannot be trusted because what we reveal doesn’t match up with who they thought we were.

When you look at the array of possible outcomes to sharing our deepest scariest sex secrets, even with someone who loves us, then yes, Surfer Dude's trepidation makes total sense. As it is, he gets by with 10 or 15 minutes of phone sex every three or four weeks, and obviously feels that getting caught in it is something he's willing to risk more than what might happen if he told his girlfriend. We all have to make these judgment calls about our own lives. Sometimes things aren’t safe, emotionally or even physically. I won’t make that blanket judgment call for anyone.

But if you are facing one of these dilemmas, where you think someone “won’t understand,” I hope you’ll sit with it a while, and really think about all of the possible outcomes if they don’t understand, and then… well, what happens if they do?

Is opening that door worth it? Only you get to decide. But that decision should be a conscious one, which you revisit every now and then.

Living life in fear, even little fears, isn’t the best way to live.

*****

I'm no sexuality and relationship coach, but I think about them a lot. It's just one of the many things I do in my writing work, which you help make possible when you become a patron of mine over on Patreon!

CALL OF THE DAY: Hot & Sexy calls and the emotional labor of phone sex

My company has a name for these kinds of calls: “Hot & Sexy.” Hot & Sexy calls are best defined by what they are not: no force, no gender play, no butt play on him, no foot licking, no homo-eroticism, no overt expressions of dominance in either direction. But calling the Hot & Sexy calls “vanilla” doesn’t do them justice, because there are many ways to do vanilla. We kinksters might like to pretend otherwise, but actually there are many possible positions and activities for “vanilla” sex.

For face-to-face sex, this is great news. Lots of terrain to explore, my vanilla people! For phone sex though, this can be BLARGH, and I hadn’t really remembered How Much Blargh until last week, when I took a 7-minute, new(-to-me) caller, who “just wanted some hot, wet sex.”

That’s it, that was all he would give me, even after 30-45 seconds of questioning. He didn’t seem frustrated or anxious about not being able to tell me something more specific; he stayed jovial and raunchy the whole time. He just thought that I could step in and manifest, out of thin air, his own personal paradise of good “hot, wet sex.”

This is what casual entitlement looks like.

He didn’t want to do any work for this call, because hey, he’s paying for it and trying to articulate one’s turn-ons does in fact take a certain amount of psychological exertion. I’m doing the emotional labor here—that is an unspecified and variable but ever-present part of any sex worker’s job—and I knew damn well that if I didn’t suss out his sexual desires, and fast, he would hang up. If he did call back the company, he would blame it on me.

So I did what I always do with these free-floating H&S calls: pick as vague a scenario as possible, launch into it with conviction, and then tailor it down on the fly with whatever feedback I can wring out of him in the moment.

For this caller, I offered girl-on-top; I figured anyone as lazy as this probably would have similar tendencies in preferred sexual positions as well, and yep, I was right!

But wait, I said, are you hungry? (This of course is code for oral.)

“Oh, yeah, I am so hungry.”

Then lie back and let’s 69, I murmured. You’re about to get a really good breakfast.

So we wound up with a fairly straightforward progression from 69 (girl-on-top) to cowgirl, which I figured out from just knowing the one thing: how little effort he wanted to put into the encounter. It’s not psychic, it’s psychological, and holy crap, is it a pain in the ass.

But I couldn’t help coming off of that call with a sort of pride in my abilities. This had been the first call of the morning, only 10 minutes after I had signed in, the day after the first late-night cabaret of the Montreal Fringe. This was at my mental low point of the day, is what I’m saying, And I still managed it.

My instincts are working, even when the rest of my brain isn’t.

******

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CALL OF THE DAY: my caller with advanced Parkinson’s, aka when my listening skills are of no use

I groaned when she gave me his name and number. I don’t know what to do for this guy, I said.

“Don’t ask him any questions,” said the dispatcher. “Just go straight into a story, something basic, a blow-job or girl-on-top.”

My own sparse notes about him say something different—ANAL, in big bold caps—which only underscores my point. But how do any of us know that we’re doing it right?

“We don’t,” and I can almost hear the dispatcher shrugging as she says it. “Are you ready?”

I say yes, but in my head I’m thinking, NOOOOO.

Doing phone sex with someone who won’t speak is one challenge, but doing it with someone who ­can’t speak is an entirely different and more frustrating matter. This caller has Parkinson’s disease, apparently, and it’s advanced enough that he can’t articulate well at all.

I googled around on Parkinson’s and sex, and all I got were stories about how some kinds of medicine used to treat the disease can lead to a rise in compulsive behaviors, including sex. I think I was googling the wrong thing, but I don’t know how to phrase this question with search-term conciseness: how do I discover what this client really wants and likes when I can’t see him and can’t understand his speech? It's not actually a question about Parkinson's, it's about working around serious gaps in our ability to communicate.

If we had a rapport built up, I could probably ask him to play the 20 questions game, with grunts for yes/no, but we don’t have that relationship, and he is not shy about hanging up when he gets annoyed, which ... I get and don't get. I mean, surely he must know by now that many people find his speech difficult to understand, especially over the phone? Maybe not.

And knowing something like that doesn't make it any less frustrating. I can imagine that the yes/no approach feels condescending. Maybe it really bothers him. Personally, if people had a hard time understanding me, but I really wanted to get off, I think I’d be relieved if someone proposed a simple non-verbal method of getting to that outcome, but I don’t know. Maybe I’d just be pissed all the time.

The first time I spoke with this caller, I made the rookie error of asking him an open-ended question and I didn’t understand a single word he said. (I don’t know where the ANAL note came from, but it wasn’t from him.) Since then, he frequently does talk to me, at the beginning of the call, but generally stops after I get rolling into whatever narrative I’ve chosen for the call.

We go the full length of time that he’s purchased, usually, but I can’t tell whether he’s come—his breathing is normally pretty labored—and there is no goodbye, just the prolonged noisy clatter of hanging up the phone when one’s fine motor skills have gotten blunted. To be honest, I have a few other callers who barely give me more than this. But they are at least able to say yes or no.

Since this caller doesn’t normally hang up when I launch right into a randomly chosen narrative/position/activity, I suppose that’s passive consent. He wouldn’t keep calling the company back if the service he gets wasn’t working for him. Whatever doubts or anxieties I have about doing calls with him, however much I wish I could get more clarity about what he wants, in the end I have to accept that those are about my needs, which are not the actual point. The actual point is what he needs, which I will never know for sure.

It burns, and it’s not just about wanting to make this caller’s experience better. This is a blow to my professional pride. I like that I know how to get to people’s hot buttons. I think that I know how to do this with just about any caller. It’s a skill, and I have it, but it is of no use here, with this caller.

I will always have to stumble clumsily through a monologue that I don’t know is actually wanted. I will never know.

*****

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