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Archive for Phone Whore

CALL OF THE DAY: my pretty, pretty princess

He used to be a regular. He could still be a regular, except I’m not. Regular, that is. My schedule is all over the place for six or seven months out of the year, when I’m touring, and so any regulars I found in my first year, when I was on at least 15 hours a day, every day… well, I had a lot, and I lost most of them. I don’t know if they went to other companies, or just kept it to evenings with my current company, but if they had kept requesting me, they probably stopped after a couple of months. I would imagine it's just too depressing after a while to keep trying.

So I don’t get this guy but maybe once every couple of months now, when I happen to be on and he happens to be off work, but I still greet him by the nickname we settled on back in the beginning. It’s in parentheses at the top of his card: Daisy.

I remember that negotiation very well. I was just getting to know him and his fantasy. Lots of cock-sucking, with him in the role of greedy “tranny” slut (his word, not mine), but he put a surprising amount of energy and thought into selecting his outfits, or rather, he wanted me to select his outfits for him. His calls were my introduction to the idea of costuming not just as an element of setting, but also an arena in which I could begin laying down the power dynamic.

So we’re going to the police station, are we?

“If that's all right, mistress.”

Well, we gotta put some clothes on you first, I mean, I can’t very well parade you naked down the streets.

<pause>

As much as you’d probably like that, you show-offy little bitch.

“Yes, mistress.”

You do like it when people stare at you, don’t you.?

“Yes, mistress.”

Well, then, let’s give ‘em something really good to look at.

And so we did a whole wardrobe assessment: tramp or pretty princess? Oh, a bit of a princess, eh? Then we’ll take the lacy white top with the pink bra underneath. But down-home style, that means the denim micro-mini. What kind of panties? No no, thongs are trashy, Daisy, we’ll get something pretty and pink to match the bra.

I want to keep you looking sweet, I told the caller that first day The first man to get into that tight pussy of yours is going to be paying extra to keep the panties as a trophy, so let’s make them something worth framing and putting on the fucking wall.

“What shoes should I wear?”

Oh, honey, it doesn’t matter. Once we get you in the office there at the station, you won’t be on your feet long enough for that to matter.

After we got him through the five-minute wardrobe discussion, and 8 or 9 minutes with every single male officer at the station that day—some back for seconds and thirds, with an emphasis on the better-equipped African-American policemen—I said, Your (male) name makes no sense for what we’re doing together. I’m gonna give you a new one, for when you work for me.

Daisy.

He was still coming out of his head space, so his laugh started out as a giggle and then dropped down. “That sounds perfect.”

I guess I’m a little surprised that it stuck with him, given the irregularity of our contact. But when I greet him that way, after a gap of three months, there’s no denying how quickly his voice gets higher.

Hello, Daisy.

“Hello, mistress.”

What have you been up to, you little whore?

“Nothing, mistress. I save it for you.”

I don't mind his little lies. It's the thought that counts.

 

*****

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CALL OF THE DAY: it hasn’t happened yet, but it will

This call hasn’t happened yet, but it will, unless my boss was right and the company can’t survive without me for longer than 24 hours. I think she’s wrong. I have plenty of empirical evidence that the company can in fact survive without me for upwards of four and a half months.

That was last summer, of course, and who knows, maybe business really has gotten worse. Maybe the downward slide continued, the one she has been talking about for years, and maybe my two weeks away, while I recovered from putting up a new play, were the last straw.

But let’s assume for the sake of jamming this article out before I collapse back onto the bed, let’s assume that the company is still there, and at some point tomorrow, my first day back on call since April 21, I will get my Call of the Day.

It’ll be my first call of that day, my first call back, after I answer the phone and chat awkwardly with my boss, who will have been cultivating for nearly two weeks her resentment of my daring to take time off, who will make a few digs at me that she laughs off as jokes, and then rattle off the caller’s details too quickly and get frustrated at me for not being able to keep up. For a few tight-lunged seconds I will panic, like, maybe I forgot how to do this, even though, again, I’ve come back after four and a half months. I won’t forget.

It’ll be just like riding a bike, one with a kinda uncomfortable seat that veers just enough to the right that I can’t ride it with no hands, but I’ll get back on it and go, oh yeah, I remember how to do this, but why didn’t I remember how uncomfortable this seat is? Oh, well, at least it’ll get me to where I need to go.

Maybe the Call of the Day will be Bilingual Papi. That’d be nice. That’s happened sometimes. I tell him the days that I’m coming back, and sometimes he remembers. German chocolate cake in my ass crack is not a bad way to start back up again. He’s getting a little demanding lately, getting back on his anxiety kick as we approach summer touring season and my lesser availability, but that’s understandable after nearly seven years together, he gets separation anxiety, which is kinda flattering because seriously, it wouldn’t be difficult to just buy some German chocolate cake at the grocery store and cue up some online buttsex porn.

Maybe it’ll be Extreme Top. He never remembers when I’m going to be away. He gets confused easily when it comes to my times on the lines. I think he needs to cut down on his casual drug use. Or ramp it up, so he forgets about me completely. His calls are good money, though…

More likely the Call of the Day will be with someone utterly forgettable, not a regular, someone whose card I need to dig out to remember what they like, and even then it’ll be blank, I didn’t even have enough to write down the first time they called me. It’ll be a blank Call of the Day, a cold call, when I have to start over from scratch, even though I can see from the calling history that he and I have talked a dozen times before, we won’t remember each other, though.

It’ll be a seven-minute call, or maybe 10 minutes, a phone sex 10 minutes, which means he finishes two and a half minutes early or two minutes late. He’s not in touch enough with his self-pleasure rhythms to know how long it’ll take, how to delay orgasm, or maybe he’s circumcised and has developed Death Grip to compensate, Death Grip and a sense of entitlement, make me come, bitch.

And I’ll do my best with his blank index card in front of me and his horny, aggressive awkwardness on the other end of the line, and my best will almost certainly be good enough, because I’m overqualified and he will not have very discriminating tastes.

When the call is done, I will hang up and note down the time, and then stare at my laptop screen for a few unseeing moments. I will be done with it, for the millionth time, and my heart will be so tender, for reasons that I can’t tell you or my callers about. And sitting there with my tender heart and my naked ambition and my reluctant acknowledgement of the socio-economic forces that are currently holding me in place…

I will let out a sigh and blink back the tears and get up and start another coffee. Calls of the Day, to me, have become less about excitement and more about making myself remember. There is more to my day than this.

*****

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CALL OF THE DAY: some holes are not as easy to fill

This guy’s calls are a bit tricky, and only last week did I figure out why.

In terms of content, it’s smooth sailing, right out of the playbook, if there were one, but there isn’t, but sometimes there might as well be. With him I’m a dominant “she-male”—I have never yet been asked to be any other kind, in nearly 7 years on the phones—and he wants to taste everything that comes out of my body, all of it. Yes, even that. There are other details, and OF COURSE the obligatory pounding with my nine-inch fully functional cock, but it’s all pretty textbook material, rarely with any plot or through-line. Standard Tab A, Slots B and C.

But he wants the slots and tabs for a half-hour at a time, which is a long time to talk about the hydraulics of it, and even though there is nothing particular in his calls for me to hang onto, no additional characters or notable happenings or special birthday sex to turn our sessions into memorable sex soap opera, he expects me to recall details from two or three sessions ago as well as he does.

In other words, it’s a half-hour of unimaginative, if vigorous, sex that has WAY more charge for him than one might expect from mechanical fucking. But even so, I was not expecting what happened during our most recent call.

We chatted a bit at the beginning, e.g. “what are you wearing,” where he likes to hear some realistic outfit, and “what have you been up to,” where I am listening for any potential grist for his mill. We both confessed that we were recovering from illness, but I said, hey, erections are important, and he laughed. Especially mine, I added, and he laughed until he started coughing.

We got through the normal “ass, cock, balls, cock, ass, ass, COCK COCK COCK” sequence, and still had four or five minutes left in that half-hour package, when he said, “Hey, I wanted to ask you for one more thing, as part of the fantasy.”

I was a little taken aback, I mean, normally guys just don’t have it in them for a second round. Sure, I said, what is it?

“Can you tell me that you love me?”

- Just like that?

“Yeah, I’d just like to hear it.”

-[pause] I love you.

In real time, that pause felt like it went on forever, as my mind clicked over and I remembered other clients to whom I have said, I love you. I was trying to figure out why this time it felt so different.

“I love you” really doesn’t make it out of my mouth much at all during paid phone sex, except when the customer is saying it to me during the throes of orgasm, and clearly would like to hear the same from me during the throes of my “orgasm,” OR when it’s Bilingual Papi and there really is a blooming little relationship there of sorts, so it doesn’t feel wrong or unethical to say it, in either language. In both cases, “I love you” is part of the sex act, either the foreplay or the climax. It’s just words, I think to myself, for when they want to get tender in the middle of filth.

But with this guy, well… he asked for the words outside of a sexual context. He had already come. He wasn't saying it to me; he wanted me to say it to him. His request for an expression of love was a stand-alone thing, but something he perhaps needed as urgently as my dick, maybe more urgently, or else why did he hold onto it for so long? Why was he so embarrassed when he asked for me to say it? Why was I so initially hesitant to say it to him?

After I said “I love you” to the caller, I asked him, gently, if something was wrong. “Oh, I’ve just been so busy lately, and I’m recovering from the flu, and I just needed to be told that,” he said. “I miss having someone to say that to me.”

Ah, I said. That’s important, too.

CALL OF THE DAY: accents, “black girls,” and aural stereotypes

Go watch this video, it's an interesting discussion, and I particularly like that the host turned this dumb-ass question around: "What kind of white guys do black girls like? There's no real answer to that question, why should there be one the other way around?" The DK Show on YouTube

Go watch this video, it's an interesting discussion, and I particularly like that the host turned this dumb-ass question around: "What kind of white guys do black girls like? There's no real answer to that question, why should there be one the other way around?"
The DK Show on YouTube

The dispatcher rattled off his number and name, and then blurted it out fast, as if she knew it would squick me out: “He wants a black girl.” Maybe she did know. My dispatcher knows that I have … feelings about these kinds of things.

Let me be clear: interracial relationships do not upset me, but when someone calls up looking for a PSO of a specific race, they are not looking for mutual commitment and support. They are looking for whatever verbal stereotypes exist that fit their fuckability profile.

I have heard about getting requests for an Asian girl, and holy fuck, I can totally imagine what that would involve. (I don't think Bilingual Papi counts here; he knows I'm white, he just likes to hear the words in Spanish sometimes.) On the rare—two?—prior occasions where I was supposed to be a black girl, the callers wanted to hear me perform a specific kind of black; they wanted a certain cadence, the kind of “sass” that makes videos go viral and, when white gay men imitate it, makes me want to scrape my eardrums out until the racist echoes are gone. African American Vernacular English is what the linguists call it. A lot of other people call it “sounding black.”

I knew what those two callers were after, and I just couldn’t make myself do it. The best I could muster was just me, but louder and more forceful even than my usual domme default. Afterward I thought, well, at least they didn’t use the N-word. Cold comfort.

This was my baggage, on this recent day, when the dispatcher said, “He wants a black girl.”

- What does that even mean? I asked, nearly shouting in frustration.

“I don’t know!” she shouted back.

- I don’t do accents.

“I know, I know. Just describe your skin, say it’s chocolatey or whatever.”

Fair enough, I thought, and sullenly gave the go-ahead. Okay, I’ll do that.

“Ten minutes,” she said. “Go get ‘em.” She always sounds like a high-school football coach when she says that.

I braced myself for the worst-case scenario: white, entitled, subby-but-still-in-charge. But then the caller answered his phone, and my brain froze. His voice had that cadence that was not mine to claim; he was using AAVE. If he himself was not African-American, he was trying hard to pretend, which would be WEIRD, but not the weirdest thing that I've ever heard for the sake of a wank.

“What you look like, girl?” he asked. I am shit at lying, but I gave it my best shot, fed him the line about chocolatey skin, brown-black eyes, hips you can really hold onto. He told me about himself: caramel skin, big hands, long tongue. Oh, yes. That was the important bit in his self-description. He wanted me to sit on his face and ride him until I came, so I described my pussy, described the taste: nectar, honey, sweet sweet juice. That was it. I came a couple of times, he climaxed at the right moment, we said bye in a thoroughly friendly fashion, and I breathed a sigh of relief when I hung up the phone. He bought it, I thought. Whatever I said, and however I said it, he bought it.

And then I sat back and wondered yet again if all of my callers understand that they are not actually getting the girl that they describe to the dispatcher. Maybe they know it in an abstract sense, but think that they’re special, that they have preternaturally keen powers of discernment, that they could tell if I were lying about being 5’2 and petite, or 450 pounds with long auburn hair, or, you know, black.

What does a black girl sound like? No. The real question is what do white men who call phone sex lines want a black girl to sound like, and I know the answer to that question. A new question is, what do black men who call phone sex lines (a statistical rarity to begin with) want a black girl to sound like? After this call, I can confidently say that I have NO FUCKING IDEA, any more than I know what a chubby chaser wants a supersize BBW to sound like.

Our voices all sound the same, coming out of my mouth. I swear to you, I'm CRAP with accents, especially stereotypical ones; I don't even try, and I don't want to. So the experiences differ only in who is listening, and what stories are already in their heads.

*****

The stories. That's what I tell. As many as I can get my hands on and wrap my mind around. Feed my forays: become a patron of mine over at Patreon.

What the fuck is a Smut Slam?

it's less an actual bucket, and more a state of mind.

it's less an actual bucket, and more a state of mind.

What is a Smut Slam, and how does it work?

Simply put, it’s a community storytelling open-mic featuring real-life first-person sex stories. We draw out storytellers one slip at a time, as the night rolls on. There are judges and prizes and a chance to participate anonymously with the Fuckbucket (anonymous questions and confessions).

Why a Smut Slam works is a different question. Often it feels like it won’t work at all. There are moments at the beginnings of every Smut Slam, where the bucket for teller entry slips is rattling with only four slips, or two, or one. And the room is full of expectant eyes, all trained on me, waiting for the show to happen, which is my cue to step up to the microphone and say something like, “you people know that this is an open mic, right? You are the show.”

Over the five years of doing Smut Slams around North America and the UK, I have learned not to panic. I have learned to prepare my judges for the possibility of needing to tell a story, and I have learned that, for most of those nights, though the teller bucket may have nothing but tumbleweeds for the first 20 minutes, by the time the second or third story has been told, audience members are nudging each other and finally picking up the little pink slips, and you can feel it in the air, a sort of collective sigh of “oh! I can do that.” At intermission the telling bucket fills up a little bit, and no one needs to know that I was panicking.

As sometimes happens with my projects, Smut Slam started out being a promotional happening, to coincide with the world premiere of my play slut (r)evolution. But Smut Slam quickly became its own style of event, taking on a life of its own and driving off, not giving a single flying fuck that I had accomplished my original goals. People want it on its own merits. The Slams are more popular than my award-winning theatre shows. I don’t even take that personally anymore. It’s just the nature of theatre, so I just make sure to always schedule a Smut Slam before a theatrical run, and rely on one to subsidize the other.

The other thing, the important thing, about my projects is this… I create them because I want it in my own life, and I don’t have time to wait around for other people to create what I want. I do it my own damn self.

Before that first Smut Slam in Boston in 2011, I had started attending and telling at story slams in the region. Storytelling seemed like a good skill to develop for my performance toolbox, I thought, and it was.

But I always felt like the odd one out at those non-smutty slams. I found myself biting back the obscenities even though, from a narrative point of view, they would have been by far the best artistic choice for that particular story. I discarded many a good story for public telling because, even though organizers told me it was an adult event and that I could use whatever language I wanted, I could tell instinctively that wasn’t actually true.

The audiences at those non-smutty events were not the audience for the stories I wanted to tell at that time. I wanted space where those stories, my stories, would be honored as the important things that they were and could be. I also knew, or perhaps I just hoped really hard, that there were other people out there who wanted the same thing.

I have maintained for years that there is no room in our society, as it stands now, to talk honestly about sex. While this in itself is not disastrous on the same scale as the refugee crises or global climate change or authoritarian presidential candidates, it is one more way that we are killing ourselves. And finding a way to open up that space is one more way that we can save ourselves. If we don’t find community, we will perish alone. Actually and metaphorically, we cannot change the world by ourselves.

Smut Slams are a community of sorts. People laugh a lot at these slams, but they are also nodding their heads, and taking down notes, and grabbing tightly hold of their lover’s hands, or occasionally crying. Smut Slam is, above all, a place of honesty and connection. If we’re lucky, we have friends and lovers with whom we can share our authentic sex selves. But in general, that connection is so fucking rare. I wanted it, and I guessed that other people would want it, too.

So yeah, Smut Slams work because some people are voyeurs and some people are exhibitionists and many people do love a good awkward sex story, you know, we can all identify with feeling nervous and making the first move and not having anyplace to urgently fuck, and dogs and/or parents and/or the priest coming into the garage/room/confessional at the wrong moment.

But Smut Slams also work, because … there is no space for this sharing and connecting, anywhere else. There is no place quite like this, where we can tell a story, maybe something we’ve never told before, and we know that we are being heard.

*****

Most of what I write is about this: making space for our sex lives to be heard. If you think that's important and you have the means, step up and become a patron of mine over on Patreon.

TERRIBLE SEX TIPS: “10 Sex Positions To Get Her Off (You’ve Probably Never Tried)”

Don't brace yourself against the wall for a paddlin'? That's another paddlin'.

Don't brace yourself against the wall for a paddlin'? That's another paddlin'.

I can’t resist, y’all. It’s just too damn easy. When the subhead for a sex tips article floats up on Facebook saying ORGASMS GUARANTEED, only two things are guaranteed (and neither of them are orgasms):

  • I’m gonna look. Someone has to do the looking, and I don’t want it to be you.
  • It’s gonna be crap, probably from that same guy at the … is it him? Yes! It IS, Sean Jameson! He's the BJ instructor who needs a paddlin’ for putting out some of the worst dreck in the history of sex tips.

He’s patronizing as fuck, in language that is so stilted that your brain might cramp! He takes all of the worst clichés in both writing and sex tips, and rolls them into one tedious to-do list (original article here)! And YOU NEED TO DO THEM ALL.

Jameson of course back-pedals on the click-bait promises, hedging his article all around with disclaimer language (positions that “you’ve probably never tried”, or “these may not all work for you”). Let’s take a look and see why these might not work.

  1. Thigh Tide

It’s something that I can almost guarantee that you've never, ever tried before.

Uh huh. You’re grinding their thigh. I approve of not feeling restricted to penis-in-vadge options, but dry humping is actually pretty common.

  1. Turtle

Start on your hands and knees with your man on his knees behind you. You will then put your arms backward around your the back of your thighs and pull yourself close to your legs. In this way, you will be making a turtle shape with your body. Perfect for deep penetration.

Wait. What do you do with your head? If "your man" (ick) is fucking you hard for that deep penetration, you need to be bracing back against the thrusting. What are you bracing yourself with? YOUR FUCKING HEAD. That sounds like a very strategic and sensible approach to neck and spinal safety.

  1. Bodyguard

​Spooning whilst standing, basically, the highlight of which, according to the author, is this: “One thing that can make it both fun and like a workout is standing on your toes while he is thrusting into you.” You know my feelings about even thinking about workout and sex in the same sentence. BOOOO THIS IS NOT A FEATURE.

  1. Washing Machine

Oh, bent over a washing machine. Because we haven’t had 70 years to figure that out.

  1. Leapfrog

Like doggy but DIFFERENT. SO DIFFERENT!

Instead of using your hands and arms to keep you upright, you are going to be resting your chest and head on the bed, while sticking your butt and waist high into the air. The added benefit of this is that your arms won't get tired.

No, but your back will.

  1. Acrobat

Ffft. Cowgirl with a back arch that really needs support from whomever you’re riding. He somehow manages to miss that aspect in his baroque yet strangely unexciting step-by-step instructions for getting into position. SAFETY FIRST, YOU TOSSER.

  1. Anvil

… lie on your back with your legs in the air. Your man will be kneeling and will then enter you. Next, he needs to start leaning over you. Doing this will push your legs further and further backwards creating a feeling of pressure where you man is right on top of you. Perfect if you enjoy feeling dominated.

Wait, wait, wait. I have so many questions! How wide do you spread your legs? What should he do with his hands? How many years of yoga do you need? What is the largest recommended bra size for this pose before you run the very real risk of being smothered in your own mammary glands? Why is this perfect for feeling dominated? Is it because you will feel trapped by your own tits and his body and the weight of societal expectations around gender and power dynamics? Yeah, that could be it.

  1. G-Spot Sniper

The G-Spot sniper is great for — you guessed it — hitting your G-spot.

I have big side-eye for any supposedly one-size-fits-all position that involves them "grabbing your thighs"—how small are your thighs?! How large are their hands?!—and hauling you bodily upward so your ass and lower back are off the bed. Said move is probably off the table for many bodies. Also, can we just try to avoid gun-culture metaphors when talking about P-in-V sex?

  1. Spooning

You'll find that spooning is great for intimate and sensual sex with your man, but it's not particularly good for super fast, rigorous sex.

Hah, no, really? I think it’s best to stay positive when giving sex tips, so here I would say instead, “it’s excellent for sneaky hotel-room sex when your friends are in the next bed over.”

  1. Hang Loose

Missionary, but right up to the edge of the bed, so that your head is hanging off the end.

It's not the craziest position in the world, but it makes for a really nice change from regular missionary.

Upside-down scenery! Blood-rush to the head! My goodness, that does sound like a delightfully fresh approach!

*****

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The unique trial of potty-mouthed play titles

nerdfucker_test

most shop windows will not put this up. #thingsidontneedtoverify

This article came up last year, in the middle of my UK tour. I remembered it this week because it’s still timely and relevant and… WHY DO I KEEP DOING THIS TO MYSELF. I I keep putting vulgar language in my play titles!

Okay, the last two plays have had inoffensive titles, but this season I’m back with nerdfucker, which is not just vulgar, but actually an obscenity by most public speech laws, so naturally I have been pondering the wisdom of my titling practices. I have had time to consider possible reactions of Fringe festivals, and the challenges of getting the poster up on bulletin boards, and I will never ever be able to go on the air anywhere, holy fuck, what the fuck have I been thinking?

That sort of face-palm mentality only comes to me in flashes. Mostly, I’m resigned. Publicity goes out to mass media, which is conservative by nature. Marketing goes out there in the public eye, and while I would assert that Fringe festivals are inherently risky places to trot your children through, I understand people’s point. This stuff is out there for passersby to see. (I’m still going to put it up there, but I understand the point.) Yes, I’ll have a little dispenser of narrow white tape to slap over the U and make it at least a little more tolerable for coffeehouse standards, but I will have to make peace with the pushback.

I’m more concerned about talking with people. I’ve been saying the title more lately—time to get used to saying it straight-faced, make no blink, give no quarter—and I’ve been getting That Grin in response. It’s a grin I know well, from promoting Phone Whore and slut (r)evolution, a kind of semi-knowing smile that nudges me sideways in the ribs and winks and says “ahhhh, and I bet THAT'S a saucy bit of stage fol-de-rol, innit!”

Nope. Not saucy, not sexy. nerdfucker is not sexy, way less even than Phone Whore was sexy. (People are constantly surprised by how not sexy Phone Whore is.) My next show, HearthCore, will not be sexy. Even Smut Slam, though it entirely features stories about sex, is rarely sexy. My shows aren’t necessarily or even primarily sexy. They just sound like they should be, because that’s the energy I bring to them, because they do touch on sex, because sex is part of our lives. Sex affects the decisions we make; it underpins so much of what most people do. I take it seriously.

But when I tell people the names of my shows, they think I’m being cheeky or something, which… not really. They think it’s going to be sexy; again, not so much. They think I can’t possibly mean anything serious with it, because it sounds sexy or at least saucy. This is the stuff I end up pushing back against all the time out on tour, and I … yeah, I get a little tired of it.

Well, you might say, if you're getting tired of it, name your shows something different. But that lets the listener right off the hook for their own gut response. It lets society off the hook for being so weird about language and sex and skin. And I can’t seem to name my shows differently. They find their titles, or the titles find them, and the titles and the shows fit together like a hand in a beautiful velvet word-glove. If the made-up word nerdfucker says exactly what I think people need to know going in, or at least part of what people need to know, then that’s what the title should damn well be.

So. Fuck the media and hey there, fringe people. nerdfucker is neither saucy nor sexy. It’s just me.

*****

What happens when a foul-mouthed, thoughtful wordsmith meets the world? That's pretty much what I do. Get on board and become a patron of mine over on Patreon. There's going to be a collision—many of them—and it's gonna keep being good.

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