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Archive for Phone Whore

Big Cock Candy Mountain

In my non-sex-work performing life, I have frequently appropriated and rewritten Broadway show tunes and other well-known lyrics for satirical purposes. It's an odd way to relax, but I'm good at it and, well, there you go. So after a recent call--a particularly rapid and exhausting review of Physically Impossible Sex Acts, Parts 2, 5, and 7 (in 15 minutes)--I was not surprised to have the following emerge:

(sung to the tune of Big Rock Candy Mountains, which you can hear versions of all over, in O Brother, Where Art Thou, and also in kids' radio programming sometimes)

Big Cock Candy Mountains

In the Big Cock Candy Mountains there's a land that's fair and bright
Where the girls all shave their bushes and you eat out every night
Where the glory holes are open and the sun shines every day
On the birds and the bees and the testicle trees
Where the urine streams, where the dildo reams
In the Big Cock Candy Mountains

In the Big Cock Candy Mountains all the cocks are hard all day
And the dogs are always willing and the boys all like to play
And every drawer is brimming with piles of lingerie.
Oh, I'm bound to come, gonna get me some
where the beds will shake and vibrators hum
In the Big Cock Candy Mountains

In the Big Cock Candy Mountains you never change the sheets
And the little streams of pussy juice leave white spots on the seats.
The choirboys go commando and the priests don't seem to mind.
There's a lake of poo and other goo
If you step in that, I'll lick your shoe
In the Big Cock Candy Mountains

In the Big Cock Candy Mountains the floors are always clean
So if that horny mood should hit, you can drop and start your scene
The men are long and tall here, ev'ry girl a sex machine
I'm a-gonna to stay where you fuck all day
Where the cream and honey just flow that way
In the Big Cock Candy Mountains

(tip of the battered hat to Harry McClintock)

Doin' It for Daddy

Confession: I'm not a top, I'm a switch. Those who know me may be a little surprised, because I come off pretty assertive. But them's the facts, ma'am. I switch when I meet someone who can top me hard, and who doesn't flinch about my predilection for being a little girl in the sheets. A stone daddy, if you will.

Well, most of my callers aren't tops. Most probably don't even know what that means. Most are sissy-girls and mommyfuckers, or guys who want me to be vicious and yank their pink satin thongs into a wedgie. The ones who call and want to get rough and/or nasty are staying in their own head, and throwing shit at me to get their rocks off. Whether that shit sticks to me or not is really irrelevant. In line with the 7-minute sub, I guess these guys would be the 10-minute tops.

Well, last week I got a caller who actually did a fucking intake interview: what I liked, what I thought I was good at, what I looked like when I was 12, what I fantasized about with my real-life partners, and what I've actually done and enjoyed in real life. Something about the way he did it, I let my guard down. And then he turned it around on me, and I was ... floored.

He had paid attention, picking up all my details and weaving them into something else that I could tell was his turn-on, but with enough of my own real-life bits to make it very, very sticky. Not like syrup is sticky, or velcro, but like a cape made of barbed hooks is sticky: once it's on you, it's in you, and if someone pulls at it, you go wherever they take you.

It was unnerving to be on the other end of that treatment. He figured out some of what made me tick, made up the rest with a pretty good guess, and I was putty. He was good. He was merciless. He was a foul-mouthed bastard. He was ... actually, he was to me as I am to the vast majority of my callers

It was an open-ended call, so the profit motive was strong to keep him going, at least in the beginning. But by the end of the call, I was sweating and panting and torn between wanting the story to keep going and needing it to stop because I was afraid I might faint. Afterwards, while I was trembling and rehydrating, it hit me that I had never felt more deserving of the phrase "sex worker".

He called me the next night, too, and when the dispatcher gave me the call, she said, huh, that's weird, he normally only calls the really young girls. And I laughed and said something blasé about my roleplaying skills. I didn't say anything about the excited little girl jumping up and down inside me. She's not a marketable skill. She's just me, and doesn't come out for anyone but a real daddy.

I'm laughing with you, not at you

I've got the ongoing and slowly growing list of pet peeves. But I also want to hit the flip side, with ...

Things I didn't think I'd like about doing phone sex

  • post-coital laughing. On the good calls, after I hear them finish and they're winding down, I always feel like laughing. It's something like joy that I can't hold in. I make some crack about doing a Jackson Pollock number on the wall (if they're that educated), or about both of us having to sleep in the wet spot. But that's just a cover for the fact that I want to giggle at how much fun it's possible to have doing this.

The corollary is...

  • making callers laugh. When I started, I was warned that I shouldn't crack jokes. Unless it's a Tiny Penis/Humiliation call, in which case the more and nastier jokes I make the better. But by nature I am a jokester, a performer: I crave response. So I poke and tease and make smart-ass remarks. Making them laugh out loud is almost as good as hearing them shout themselves hoarse when they come.
  • not having to dress up to go to work. To any phone-sex johns who may have stumbled across this blog, please accept my apologies for bursting your bubble, but seriously, pajama city.

365 Days of Sex-ayyy! (2010 NYC Sex Bloggers Calendar)

So much time between phone calls some days! But without all that downtime, I wouldn't have discovered this fantastic fundraising effort.

Twelve beguiling sex bloggers from NYC, photographed by top-name fetish, fashion, and art photographers. This shit is classy raunch, y'all! The result is a high-gloss, almost certainly NSFW 2010 calendar, with proceeds from the sales benefiting Sex Work Awareness, which does awesome programming in the areas of education, outreach, and advocacy for sex workers.

They're taking pre-orders at the calendar site already (first link above), which means I have time to set up a little piggy bank and throw my change in for it (did I mention it's been really slow?). Anyway, that calendar will go great on my thickly padded (ie, sound-insulated) wall, next to the kinky clip-on mini koala bears and the Mardi Gras pig pendant ("show us your teats!").

(Slight tangent: What else should I get for my room to make it even more a comfy, cozy den of iniquity? What do you think, or what do you imagine, every PSO should have in their workspace?)

The 7-Minute Sub (no, it’s not a sandwich)

When I get a call, the dispatcher gives me a quick-hit low-down on what the caller likes, according to their records: likes big tits, doesn't talk much, likes strap-on. These few words, called "whispers", are priceless. We need them to get started, because getting from zero to "likes to be pissed on", for example, in under 10 minutes is tough. Twenty questions would not be enough, is what I'm saying.

But some whispers are, how shall I say... useless. Not because of the dispatcher, but because of the caller, and because of the inadequacy of words, and the inherent self-centeredness of everyone's sexual world. One whisper I particularly dislike is "wants to be dominated".

Because on a seven-minute call, unless it's part of an ongoing, regular phone relationship, you aren't experiencing domination. You're experiencing someone being loud and stern at you while you get to do exactly and only what you want to do.

The seven-minute sub, if it was a sandwich, would be your delicious choice of any imaginable ingredient in the world, on two slices of grocery-store sourdough, with maybe some mayo. I would be wearing a hairnet and high-heeled boots, and I would hand your sub to you on a plate and yell, "EAT IT!" at random intervals. But you don't mind the noise because it's exactly the sandwich you want. At least the filling is, and that's what people order sandwiches for anyway, isn't it?

The seven-minute sub wants the domme call because he wants to lick my ass or worship my boots and he can't imagine any other way that he would do that without a strong woman being involved.

The seven-minute sub is the ultimate bratty bottom. He doesn't need a safe word, because he can pull out of his bottomness at any time and say, "Actually, I'm not into that..." Or just say "NO!" and hang up, like one person did on me last week.

The seven-minute sub is playing at it. Some might say that all phone-sex subs are playing at it, that there's no way to truly dominate someone over the phone. My experience? Not true. I have several regulars who take everything I dish out and are clearly relishing the feeling of being dominated. I have a particular favorite whom I have told to lick his come off of his leather sofa at the end of the call, and he does it, no question, even though he's already come.

Point is, you can get there in 90 minutes, or even 10. But seven minutes of phone-sex domination is just a scold and a wank. I'll do it for the money, but believe me, the longer you give me to make you a sub, the tastier it's going to be.

Coming Out (and just plain coming)

I have come out about many things in my life. From the time when I was 14 and told my religious parents that I didn't believe in God, to the coming-out as queer in my early college years, to the lunchroom revelation at age 26, when I confronted my meat-eating head-on (in the form of a savory-smelling take-out box containing sweet-and-sour pork)... for some reason, I have been gifted not only with a decidedly contrarian bent, but also the cast-iron cunt to stand up for it.

Coming out as a sex worker, though, has been a whole new treat in saying the unsayable, to people who I am sure did not bargain for it. I'm not talking about responses in my performance and friendship communities; if my friends and colleagues didn't expect the career shift, most of them know me well enough to not be at all surprised that I am doing well. It's the outer circle, the new and/or distant acquaintances, and the business contacts, where the fun begins. Since I started doing phone work, I have had to come out to my two current roommates, a half-dozen potential roommates, two government agencies, a three-person marketing research crew, and all my next-door neighbors ("why are you sitting out on the porch with your cordless phone?").

In all of these encounters, I have striven for nonchalance, a sort of matter-of-fact breeziness in stating my source of income. But on the inside, I still tremble, knowing the societal bias and fearing for the potential impact my revelation could have on my home and my sustenance. How many people would want to move into a room directly under my work space? (One is enough, and she's hopefully signing the contract next week.) Will the Department of Transitional Assistance still give me food stamps if they know I'm a phone sex operator? (Yes. My intake worker didn't even blink.)

What do I do with that fear? I bulldoze through it, the same thing I've done with every other coming-out. My silence contributes to the problem; my action, my speech, lets someone know that I am that other. They may be indifferent, or afraid, or curious, or unnerved, or even a little freaked out, but now they have a face to hang that feeling on. And I have one more moment of being fully myself.

**************

For those who want a little less woo-woo and a little more action in their phone-sex blogs, I present the following

What I Did Yesterday

  • two (2) peggings (that's strap-on ass-fuckery), including one with a sissy submissive who was gratifyingly effusive afterwards
  • two (2) blow-jobs, not counting fellatio as a bit part in a larger scene
  • one (1) "shemale" session (I know, I know, that's what it's called in the biz)
  • one (1) gang bang at a bachelor party gone awry
  • one (1) mean muscular boss lady using very peculiar motivational methods
  • one (1) public seduction in a club that would either have gotten us booted out or hired on the spot
  • one (1) 20-minute fuck session that would have wrecked a hotel room
  • one (1) cuckolding (involving Big Black Cock (tm), naturally)
  • one (1) housekeeper and her precious teenage ward
  • one (1) rape-and-torture session, me on a little girl (more on this in a later post)
  • one (1) interview with a caller who was very distracted by his online porn
  • one (1) fart and scat session, heavy on the farts

This was an unusually busy day for me; with the recession, business has declined. But that's a taste of, well, my callers' tastes.

Have a dirty, delicious weekend, y'all! Stay dry unless you want to get wet, and stay cool unless you are deliberately cranking up the heat. Me, I just gotta keep the phone charged up...

I know you're there, I can hear you breathing

There is a lot more silence in my work than I would have thought, had I been thinking at all about phone sex before I started doing it. And there are enough different kinds of silence that I would be fully justified in developing separate words for each...

  • That silence between calls when I don't have any of my other work to do, so I'm waiting for the ring and it's not there. It's echoingly empty, slightly resentful, a vacuum that goes on for-fucking-EVER.
  • The silence you get on the street at 2:30 in the morning, when that other silence gets too much and I need to relieve the pressure on my ears. Outside, the silence is calm and dark and velvety, and I relax into it.
  • The slightly staticky silence after the dispatcher calls me and I'm waiting for the caller's phone to ring. That's a busy silence, where I'm taking the two sentences the dispatcher gave me about what the guy likes and brewing up ways to get there. (Because no matter how many times I take a fart call, I just CAN'T figure out how to be smooth about it.)

Anyway, the silence that I've been thinking about most these days is more transient than these, harder to pin down because it blows by in my calls and I don't even realize it's there until afterwards, when I replay the conversations in my head and occasionally wonder, "How did I know to go there when the guy hardly talked at all?" It's those sporadic silences, blinking open and closed like eddies in a rushing river of narrative, that I am learning to love.

There is where I catch my breath, and rather than immediately plunging back into the story, I sit still, even for a fraction of a second, and wait. And listen. I am silent, and the caller thinks he is being silent, too. But I can hear the creak of a chair, the slight whispering squelch of a well-lotioned hand, an involuntary intake of breath. Sometimes I even imagine that I can hear his brain humming along at high speed, like the subliminal whirr of a roomful of very expensive computers.

The quiet is not just for me. It is the space I make for my caller to sigh, or moan, or say yes, or add three more teenage girls into the scene, each with slightly different nipple sizes. Lacking visual cues, I need verbal ones, and there must be space for the caller to give them. I used to talk over my callers a lot, when I first started. I'm slowly learning to find the natural rhythm of the action, and when each phrase within our call comes to its natural conclusion, I pause. I wait. I am silent.

And then, because I only have 15 minutes, or 10, or 7, I take a deep breath and dive back in.

(I just realized that silent and listen are anagrams. That is exactly perfect.)

Unexpected Peeves

I will deal with unexpected pervs in a later post, probably many later posts. This particular topic deserves the creation of a special tag, like, "I'm wearing my cranky pants. What are you wearing?" Without further ado, I present the beginnings of my list...

Things I Didn't Think Would Irritate Me About Doing Phone Sex

(a list in progress)

  • Having to pretend to give a blow-job in the middle of washing dishes. Sucking two fingers is the best sound effect for that, and I never have time to rinse my hands thoroughly before picking up the phone.
  • Cold toast, cold dinner... whatever food I may be heating up, there is a chance that I will be interrupted within the first two bites to get a call. Thank god for 30-minute call blocks, but sometimes I want to eat my pork chop while it's still warm.
  • My ass falling asleep. Yeah, baby, in our shared world, I may be sprawled in my velvet easy chair or swinging from a fucking chandelier, but in my embodied world, I am sitting at my desk in a freecycled chair, which means it's lopsided, slightly too low, and inadequately cushioned.

The "real" question

Call endings vary, just like the callers. If they've been raised properly, they thank me, even if it was a 5-minute blow-job, and wish me a good night. Sometimes they just hang up, as abruptly as dropping a vibrator on the floor after you're done with it. (I don't take it personally, any more than the vibrator does.) But occasionally, one of my callers asks the question:

What do you do in real life?

By that he means, "What do you do when you're not bringing men to orgasm on the phone?"

Now, I don't have a problem with the question. It helps keep me grounded in the totality of who I am. So I tell him: I'm a writer. I'm a choreographer. I'm a performer. But I don't know why he wants to know. Is it just one more detail to add to the fantasy? Is it something like the "hooker with a heart of gold" stereotype? Does it make it better or worse for the caller if I'm a grad student, a dancer, a desperate housewife, a sorority sister getting her kicks, a out-call prostitute resting her cooch, an environmental activist, an underpaid junior-high teacher, a feminist playwright? I'm not sure.

There's also an issue with definitions: what is "real"? Is the life I lead on the phones, are the encounters with Jason T. and Frank N. and Teddy F. entirely unreal, transient, without metaphysical or emotional value? Because here's the thing: I have had sessions where the caller cried for a couple of minutes afterward, the cathartic impact was that real. And I have had extremely satisfying sex with my partners that is essentially the same as phone sex, that is, mutual masturbation with dirty-fucking-pig talk.

And this is one of my premises, in all the work I do: Talk, of the dirty-pig variety or otherwise, is real. Talk makes us human, and helps us to interact with others. "It's just words." Well, yes. And no. It's words, but not just. Whether you're using words to flirt, fuck, or foment social revolution, you're creating a space in two or more people's heads where change or challenge or awesome dirty-pig sex--or all of the above!--can take place.

So I will never meet any of my callers, and our talk may end in nothing more than a damp paper towel, but those 10 minutes, exchanging words, are just as real as the rest of our lives.

this is a phone-sex blog

This is not a phone-sex blog. You won't find a number anywhere on this page that you can call up and buy a 10-minute block of time with Cameryn. (Nor will I sell my panties to you. I need them.)

This is a phone-sex blog. I am a professional phone sex operator (under a different name). Phone sex is what pays my bills, and not only that, it is something that I am fascinated by and enjoy.

There is a lot of down-time with the job, though, waiting for calls to come in (I work for a dispatch company). So I'm developing a line of creative and educational "by-products" of phone-sex work, and also am looking forward to getting out some of my thoughts right here about the issues that frequently come up through and around my work.

What else is in the works? I've been booked for a dirty-talk workshop in mid-November in the Boston area, and am working feverishly on the script and fundraising plans for a one-woman play, Phone Whore, with a target of getting it onto the Canadian Fringe Festival circuit in the summer of 2010 (I'm planning a benefit showcase for the latter half of August). This blog is also going to be expanding dramatically over the next couple of months, as I add an event calendar and audio components (both free and pay-to-download).

Long story short? Sexy + intelligent + straight-up + self-pimping = Cameryn Moore, Little Black Book Productions, and this blog. If you enjoy it even half as much as I do, your panties are going to be a little damp all day long.

First question to readers: what is something you've always wanted to know about phone sex work? (If you're a fellow phone-sex operator, what is something you've always wanted to tell people about our work?)

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