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Archive for Phone Whore

First weekend on the Fringe

Everything held together, Phone Whore premiered in Montreal and did great, the pissy weather held off until today, and now my head and feet are aching from too much walking and not enough sleep. I have some pictures on my computer, but I need to sort through them. Here on my homestay desk I have a heap of coins that still feel like play money. Receipts are stacking up; time to do some filing. And today I go and open my Canadian bank account. Woo-hoo! That's show biz.

Meanwhile, on the phone-sex front things are going slow. I have been working round the clock for so long, and evenings are when most of my regulars call. Have called. Used to call. I'm plugging in and putting in that 5 hours a day, but those are daytime hours and really I'm just covering the lines. And when you throw the travel days on top of that, well, it's just going to be slow and my boss isn't very happy. Sigh. I really do need something better than rain outside right now.

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I may be keeping my photo diary on facebook, so make sure you friend me over there!

a semi-real moment in an unreal life

I love the calls where I get to be myself.

I mean, I'm never myself entirely. I'm always my PSO name who, depending on who I'm talking to, may be anywhere from 29 to 58, with 0 to 2 kids (possibly nursing), a time-share in a dungeon, a husband and two lovers, and/or an 8-inch fully functioning dick.

But some callers, like the guy I just finished, they are so ready to talk and take whatever I dish out, I can let my personality setting slide pretty damn close to the default. Because I don't have to keep track of my vocal pitch, or whether I'm laughing too much, or whether my pussy is shaved or not. I don't have to steer clear of my fingers in his ass, or pinching his balls, or getting him into an old pair of his girlfriend's panties.

I don't even need to worry about whether he prefers "dick" vs. "cock", because he really is into anything. I just get to curse him and pound the armrest of the easy chair and pull out all the good stuff from my virtual sex-toy chest. I tell him in detail about all the tastes he's getting--sweat and pussy juice and that flavor that can only be found two inches deep into my ass. I pin his arms down with my legs, tease his cock that's trapped in a pair of green satin panties, and by the end of the call I'm laughing loudly, in my normal laugh, while he catches his breath and jokingly grouses about having to wipe his own come off of his neck.

I'm not coming, but DAMN, I'm having fun.

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Just so you all know, I am going to be posting notes and photos and vids from my tour at this blog. So sometimes you'll get stuff like today's note, you know, lotsa good raunch, and occasionally you might get a picture of me wearing a fedora and putting some Fringe staff member in a headlock. Just saying. Things could... get a little random up in this joint.

Life-in-a-box (planning for the tour)

So... there's this little play that I'm doing this summer and fall. Maybe you've heard of it. Phone Whore. Really. It's little. It's just got me in it. I have a director and a tech director and a set builder, but on stage it's just me in my pajamas. The set pieces can all fit in my 1991 Toyota Corolla, plus two suitcases, a duffle bag, an office-in-a-box, and a pantry-in-a-box.

(Oooh, an office-in-a-box? Sounds snazzy! What is it? Ummm... office and merch supplies thrown in a box. Same thing for pantry-in-a-box: rice, granola, sofrito, tuna fish, peanuts, and a good chef's knife. In a box. As simple as dick in a box, but easier to explain to customs.)

ANYWAY.

A lot of my life is wrapped up in getting this show on the road, getting it booked into places, getting homestay, making a fantastic poster, and, well, packing my life in a box for five months and putting it on wheels. That in itself is fairly traumatic. But add on top of it, I'm basically committing to saying the same vulnerable, sexy, scary things (one audience member at the Boston opening weekend called it "intense") for 50 or 60 shows over the next five months.

How can I tell that I'm scared? I find myself second-guessing my decisions, even with the positive feedback, even with the plans in place, even with the Montreal postcardsThe postcard for the Montreal Fringe done and sent to print, the first of thousands of cards I'll be handing out to people this year with my face on them (layered over a fierce pegging narrative, a very readable wall of smut in 20% grayscale).

I keep bugging my director. It's not too much? I ask. NO, she says, shut up.

I look at posts like this, about how coming out and sharing one's story as a sex worker is a privilege, and I think, god, what I'm doing is so fucking self-centered and privileged.

And then I feel the weight of the responsibility, because I know that people are going to take me and my play as some kind of representation of the whole, and it's not, it really isn't, but that doesn't matter, because in the larger scheme of things, that's just the way it's going to be interpreted. And then I try to sort out unnecessary guilt from necessary good intent, and that's a bitch, let me tell you.

And then I think, what if people really like it and come out to it? I'm going to have to file taxes in Canada next year, jeezus, I still owe $7000 in back taxes here in my own goddamn country! Or what if people start stalking me because of it? And then I start to get an anxiety attack.

And then inevitably the phone rings. (Warm pork chops or an anxiety attack, the calls always interrupt something good.) (And actually another call came in just now, a 15-minute hand-job. Five bucks for me, yay!) But you know what? As busy as I am, making lists or trying to reach kinksters in Calgary or nailing down a venue in DC--even while on tour, because I'm sticking as close to my required shifts as possible--I need the calls to keep coming in.

For starters I need to keep making money. I don't know how the tour is going to do. But beyond that, doing the calls calms me right the fuck down. It reminds me where the hell this all comes from, this play, my comedy stuff, the tour. A fifteen-minute titty fuck grounds me in the straightforward (which is not always to say simple) act of getting a stranger off. Audiences and reviewers and the public and, hell, community standards can be prickly little bastards, fickle and treacherous. But my callers only want one thing, and by god, I know beyond doubt that I am good at giving it.

Thanks, guys!

the set-up

There is a certain type of caller I get—I need to come up with a good label for them—where maybe they're calling the first time to just get a good wham-bam session in, and then I hook them with my wordsmithing.

I don't do it on purpose, and I'm not saying that other PSOs aren't capable of it, AND when pressed (up against a urinal, ba-dump-bump), I can and do deliver the brutal, sound-symphony-type fuck session as well as anyone. But I default to description. Lots of it. Big steaming loads of juicy, melt-in-your-mouth, caress-your-ears description. It's my training as a writer. And in phone sex it's a double-edged sword, which I learned very quickly to keep in its sheath.

My company mostly sells blocks of time, and I sure as shit don't get paid for going over. In fact, I get ripped a new one for going over, so, you know, negative reinforcement and all that. Even for the rare "open" calls, where I keep the timer running and call in when I'm done—the ones like what people think when they think phone sex—most callers are bargain-minded, and they don't have any patience if they aren't getting directly to the point. What I feel is an important element of the scene—the furniture in the basement, the color of my panties, giving equal stage time to all 12 members of the basketball time currently raping his ass—may not be of the essence, and they'll let me know somehow to move on.

But there are the ones who thrill to the details, who ask me to repeat a certain line. I make sure to mentally set aside that much time to get their gears grinding and set the scene. I mean, I get that it's part of their fetish thing, getting that kind of detail, but I still love it when it meshes with my chronic motormouth and becomes this joint creative collaboration. I thrive off the caller who wants to hear me spin out the negligee he needs to put on, or describe in-depth how my sweaty ass crack smells, or explicate how his wife will feel when she falls in love with another man with a bigger cock. One of my callers said once, "listening to you is like reading a novel, it's so rich!"

Well, and not everyone likes to read novels. Some people are more than satisfied with headlines and cereal boxes, and that's what I'll do. But when the phone-sex equivalent of a novel-reader comes along, I am ready.

CALL OF THE DAY: return of the Gentleman Ass Pirate

It's been really, really slow on the phones lately. It's not me, at least that's what my boss tells me. It's just that time of the year. Weather's getting nice, baseball is back on, tax returns are due. Aahhhhh, yes. People are getting concerned about money, and saving up for tax payments.

And phone sex is a luxury item. I'm not going to say anything about sex in general being a luxury, but 20 minutes of time once a week to talk to a stranger about having your wife get fucked by a couple of black dudes? Well, it's cheaper than therapy or actually hiring a couple of guys to do the deed, but not as cheap as just sitting at home in your dark bedroom and replaying last week's phone call in your head.

I'm in reruns and I'm not getting a cent.

In good news, I've been getting a small wave of people who used to be regulars, or at least who requested me a few times in a row, A YEAR AGO, and then didn't call back, until now. One of the dispatchers I asked about it last night, she said, "eh, they just like to try all the girls". Me, I wonder if they liked what they heard back then, but I didn't quite have the skills to hook them through and keep them on. Because it was A YEAR AGO.

There's no knowing, I suppose, but it's just fun to hear back from people who not only stuck in my mind, but apparently I stuck in theirs. Last night I heard back from my Gentleman Ass Pirate, after a 10-month absence. No recriminations, obviously, but I said, "well, we've spoken before, but I don't know if you remember...", and he interrupted and said in that sweet Southern accent, "Oh, no, honey, I remember your voice. You have a celebrity voice." I was like, what? He was a little drunk, so he sounded a little flustered. "I mean, you have a voice that sounds like you should be a celebrity. Like you should be on radio or something. You have a beautiful voice. I remember your voice."

Gentleman Ass Pirate, indeed. He proceeded to lay siege to my booty for 45 minutes, getting me to lick his dirty cock between bouts, and thanked me afterwards as graciously as a king.

Welcome back, pirate. Stay for a while this time. The wench is better than she was a year ago.

$300 for grass seed?! (post-orgasm humor from one of my guys)

One of my regulars, he's not particularly notable for the elaborateness of his fantasies, but every time we talk he always has a new sex joke to tell me afterward. Some people smoke a cigarette after, he tells jokes. And they're not mean bigot or rape jokes, either, which is a refreshing change from the open mic scene. The jokes Ron B. tells are kind of what Readers' Digest would run if they had a regular joke page called "The Birds and the Bees". Or maybe what your awesome great-uncle would tell out by the fire pit when your mom steps away for the marshmallows and he's had two beers too many. Here's the first installment!

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There's a new salesperson at the department store who's learning the ropes. His manager repeatedly tells him how important add-ons are for increasing sales. "The next customer who comes through the door, I'll help him, and you watch how it's done, " she says.

So the next customer comes in and says, "I need five pounds of grass seed."

The manager says "Right away, sir." She goes out, finds the bag of grass seed, sets it on the counter and says, "That'll be $300."

The customer is stunned. "300 dollars for five pounds of grass seed?!"

"No, that's 5 dollars for the grass seed, and $295 for the 7-horsepower lawnmower you're going to need after all the grass comes up."

The customer looks thoughtful and then says, "you're right!" and he pays and leaves.

"I think I understand," says the newbie salesperson. "The next customer who comes in, I'll help them and you see if I've got it."

A few minutes later a woman comes up to the counter. the salesperson says, "Good morning, ma'am, may I help you? " the customer says, "I need a box of regular tampons."

The salesperson says "Right away." He goes out into the store, and comes back and places it on the counter and says, "that'll be $298."

The customer's jaw drops. "298 dollars for a box of tampons?!"

"No, the tampons are $3, and then $295 for a 7-horsepower lawnmower. Since you're not going to be doing any fucking for a while, you might as well mow the lawn."

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I love it. Thanks, Ron!

Cameryn feels right at home at Bent Wit: Fantasy!

Title: Cameryn feels right at home at Bent Wit: Fantasy!
Location: Club Oberon, Zero Arrow Street (at Mass. Ave), Cambridge
Link out: Click here
Description: Yes, there will be mermaids. And French Horns. And, of course, Mariah Carey covers- are you really surprised?

Get your tickets early \'cause you don\'t want to miss this month\'s installation of Bent Wit Cabaret themed: Fantasy! This line-up is too juicy to ignore, so think happy thoughts, get dressed to the nines, and settle in to enjoy the radical explosion of our brains for your pleasure...

Hosted by: Mary Dolan and UnAmerika\'s Sweetheart Karin Webb
House Band: Elephant Tango Ensemble (including members of Goli and Humanwine)
Featuring the Genius of: Cameryn Moore the Phone Whore, Second Lines Social Aid and Pleasure Society Brass Band, Babes in Boinkland, Evan O\'Television, Sugar Dish, Femme Brulée, Lainey Schooltree, Ginger Rita, Rhino Preserves (a collaboration by french horn player Anne Howarth and Monkey House Dance\'s Karen Krolak), Puppets, and so much more...
Featured Drink: Smoke and Mirrors
Start Time: 20:00
Date: 2010-04-11

taking it to the next level

I read somewhere that you should never apologize on your blog for long gaps between postings. So, hey everyone! You all can suck my big pink overbooked dick! Woo-hoo!

The good news is, I am fully back in the swing of things. I was worried about re-entry after a month away, but everything was fine. Funnily enough, the first call on my first shift back was my extreme top. When the dispatcher told me it was going to be him, my heart sunk, because he always wants me to whimper and cry and beg, and come up with extreme torture to beg him for. Even though I am not actually getting my titties nailed to the wall—and that's not the most extreme that he gets—and I haven't come during one of his calls since that first time I got caught up in it and lost it, I still emerge on the other end of those 90-minute calls fucking wrung out and panting and sweaty, with a sore throat and aching head. At the end of it, all I could say was, well, everything else after this will be a snap.

My regular callers are certainly happy. My Saturday night lactation date was my second caller back, and when I said, "Wow, you got lucky! Tonight was my first night back on", he said, "I know, I marked it on my calender!"

So, yeah...

I don't quite know what to do with that kind of dedication, just like I don't know what to do with the almost-emotional welcome that my Tuesday-night trucker gave me. He was getting downright tender, letting me know how much he missed me (I believe it) and how he didn't even call the service that whole month (I don't believe it, but still, it's sweet of him to think to say it).

My trucker and I have been speaking for a half-hour once a week since... June 2009? Almost 10 months. Really? I mean... that's a committed phone bone right there. We're starting to reach the point—I can feel it in the way he half-says some things—where we're both wondering where this relationship is going. He wishes he could meet me, of course, which is different from my idea of the next level.

That would be the 45-minute level. Don't want to rush him into anything.

the opposite of phone sex

After months and months of talking with strange men about everything that gets them off, I have taken four weeks off with one of my partners to visit his homeland, a small-ish but crowded South Asian country where 89 percent of the population is Muslim, so incidentally I am not talking to any strange men at all about anything, let alone what kind of things they want to have stuck in their ass or stick in mine.

I am doing the opposite of phone sex.

It feels like a slight ache in the back left quadrant of my brain, as if I have undergone a delicate lobotomy and temporarily extracted the actual physical portion of my brain that normally handles the phone sex, and now the rest of my brain--including the tender bit that negotiates slightly fraught domestic life with sub-optimal skills in the local language and also the part that maintains the psychological defenses while I'm out in a car drawing stares from the rickshaw drivers and their passengers--is pressing down on that empty space and closing in.

I'm pushing back, of course; wouldn't be a PSO if I didn't have creative ways to keep the sleaze simmering. For example, I still have that sex-psychic vision overlay that puts little boxes of sex info over the heads of everyone I look at. It seems to function pretty well cross-culturally. I may not know the language well, and fetishes vary, but the basic impulses are still there, so that's a kick in the salwar kameez to play with. (Does anyone else play this game in their head, or is it just me?)

My Internet connection is working pretty well, so I still get to read status updates from my facebook friends, talking about pasties and piercings and burlesque shows in Germany and cabaret evenings in NYC and kink workshops in Arizona, and that helps me keep the flame alive. Sometimes I'll even lie around in our bedroom after bathing without any clothes on, and let the cool air from the ceiling fan brush past my (currently) unmentionable bits.

I'm not getting paid for it right now, but it's nice to know that I can keep that dirty space open and charged in my brain.

There is no script for phone sex

I'm working on my lines for my one-woman play right now. Well, to be precise, right now I'm procrastinating. Somewhere in the middle of drafting this post I'm working on my lines, and will do so again after I put this bad boy up. Point is, I'm all in the middle of prepping for the world premiere of Phone Whore (read about it here...), and I just want to say...

Thank god there is no script for phone sex, 'cuz memorizing is HARD.

The play has four seven-minute calls in it, interrupting the title character during an interview with a camera crew. The calls are composites, drawn from archetypes and standard openings and approaches that I've gotten pretty familiar with over the past 10 months. The audience hears the phone whore's side of the calls only, so in theory I could say whatever I want and not be off. But my director likes the flow and the tone of the calls the way I wrote them, with all the pauses and plot points and imagery, and asked that I get as close to the script as possible. What has been challenging for me as a performer is getting as close to the feel of phone sex as possible, without actual input from the other side.

In my head I'm holding on to what I imagine the caller would be saying, to remember when I need to make those abrupt shifts from one track to another. That helps with the lines. But I have to dig deep to reproduce the "surprise" and the "excitement" that the caller would hear, when I already know what's coming around the corner.

In a real call, I hesitate as a negotiating strategy for getting through the really sensitive stuff. I use non-vocal sounds, reflective responses, and very casual speech to play my part in the two-person improv piece that unfolds. Performative linguists would have a field day analyzing this shit. Scriptwriters, on the other hand, would go bonkers. I mean, I did.

And now I'm trying to put it out there in a way that keeps it fresh for audiences, but reproducibly authentic for myself. Mad props to my director for keeping me on that path. (Yes, Elizabeth, I'm getting back to my lines right now!) And mad props to my callers for staying so insanely unpredictable, so genuinely dedicated to their own turn-ons, that I can't use a script in my daily work. In real life, I usually have no idea where we're going. It's an adventure. Thanks, guys.

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